Luck of the Irish

Tanvir Naomi Bush Disability, Writing 1 Comment

I have a sore throat. Its sunny and I have a sore throat. Not only that but I also ache and want to sleep. All the time. And my nose is thinking of running.
Sunshine and snot do not, I tell thee, make for a good summer.And- she whimpers – things are not going too well in the old wallet. Today I had to wash my hair with soap and the dregs of a conditioner I found from a left over hair dye kit. (not that I dye my hair goddammit…!! I am a natural brassy blonde.) When I went outside I was smothered in aphids, which promptly swooned and stuck on the soapy residue. Even now I am finding the poor little blighters in my fringe.

Today I was walking to CAB and in that dark energy spot near where Dad’s tyre got slashed I saw a man on the ground and a large, red-faced man bending over him. I trotted forward trying not to swallow the aphids clustering around my barnet. The man on the ground was sitting up but disorientated. His forehead and nose were running blood. The red faced fat man looked to me as I drew close. I had my phone out and he nodded at it with relief. He was sweating and anxious.

‘I saw it happen. I was just over there and he literally stumbled and dived at the ground. Four people just walked past before I could get here. ‘
He was stuck on the fact he had seen four people walk past the accident. He wasn’t from around here.

We both got down on our knees to try and see where the man was hurt. He was called Paddy. He was irish. He was off his tits on Speical Brew. (I made that diagnosis from the fact he kept trying to drink the cans he had just bought even though it looked like he had fractured his wrist. I Know I know… can’t rule out diabetes, Parkinsons, concussion… but there was something those Special Brew cans.)

Paddy couldn’t construct a sentence but just laughed and lurched and bled and made nosies that sounded like ‘horses’ and ‘girlie.
I called 999 for the first time in my life. It was easier then when Drew Barrymore did it in ‘Scream’. In fact the man in the emergency car arrived within five minutes. He was hot and tired and handsome..until he started speaking over Paddy’s head to us.
‘He’s Irish’, he said raising his eyebrows at me and the nice fat man. ‘He is probably just drunk and going to cost you and I the taxpayer a ton for just cleaning him up…these people..’
Behind him on the stained tarmac Paddy sat and watched us. His wierd blue eyes slewed this way and that. He was saying something like ‘I’m fine’ and trying to get up ..but he couldn’t.
I didn’t want to leave Paddy with the nasty emergency man but it was hospital or the police.
‘Goodbye Paddy’ I hissed over the emergency man’s shoulder. ‘Good luck’
Paddy laughed and gibbered and bled a little more and the nice fat man gave me a low finger wave and a slightly traumatised smile. He was still thinking of the four people who had just walked past when Paddy had fallen. He was a good man.

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