BEATS OF LOVE 

145. Ode to Beer by Me 

Little folk came to stay, sex toys, explosions along the way, 

Rallying round, sipping tea and drinking beer

but us you could barely hear

Locking you in at night, whilst the magic happened

Aforementioned explosions and such like

Warning sign number one was full on

Distracted again, then thudding onto the telly. 

Confidence lost with remote still in your shaky hand 

Soldiering on, as the little folk got easier to understand

Warning sign number two was a right to do

Putting the gas on, the new pedal to the metal

It no longer smelt thus

Melting your plastic electric kettle

Still, we poured a beer

and hid the hobs

There was no warning sign number three, just an almighty crash

Mistaking the massive rubber plant for something else

Something that could hold your weight

Spooning down hospital food, things quickly disappeared

First the home that you haven't really lived in for months, anyway

Still, spooning down a meal, to renew some zeal

Then, hoping to escape the bed,

your still strong legs, purposefully pressing against my hand,

Whilst being told they're as much use to you as sand

Killed said hope dead

Then the one-to-one care that's simply not there

A youthful social worker now dreads our calls

almost as much as the tired hospital staff, when asked to get another round of drinks in

dread yours

Although in no way meant

we've only gone and quit the beer for Lent

BEATS OF LOVE 

144. I'm Gonna Change by The Velours

AN OCCUPATIONAL hazard of supermarket work is old work colleagues regaling tales at inopportune times or informing me of folk dying. 

One such guy informed me a former colleague was in a coma and asked whether I knew him. Course I did. He was the only guy who ever got barred from the works drinking hole. 

He threw the contents of his colostomy bag over his girlfriend's head after a heated argument. In the pub. I then added how unfortunate he was to miss out on redundancy. Leaving months before the announcement. I was abruptly told he did alright, pilfering from the firm for nearly two decades. Understandably, nobody in security wanted to search his colostomy bag despite strongly suspecting it contained company property. Even a CCTV camera installed over his workstation didn't deter him. Explains why somewhat ironically he had the sweaty, nervous energy of someone in constant need of the John. 

It then hit me that life gets reduced to a couple of anecdotes by people who are little more than caricatures in our lives. Clothing myself in Christ and not gratifying the desires of my sinful nature will not change anecdotes after my life is toast. It might make me less damaged and better equipped to die. When I was expecting death in my 30s, a death I was spiritually unprepared for, I promised God that if I survived, I would change. What life has taught me since is there's a plethora of deaths, many of which no amount of spiritual preperation readies you for. 

An occupational hazard of supermarket work is old work colleagues regaling tales at inopportune times or informing me of folk dying. And me being flippant.