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The Day After

The Day After

The Day After

The day after my birthday that is. Everywhere is very quiet, and everyone, except a trader in a van selling watermelons. She’s beeping the horn every few seconds and it’s loud. I haven’t seen her yet, but I’ve been able to hear her for ten minutes. I don’t have to see her, I recognise the noise. She’s a bloody nuisance who comes here every other day from another village to flog her wares and wake up all the babies and pensioners who are enjoying an afternoon nap.

It wouldn’t be so bad if she lived here. I would love to see her car’s engine explode just to shut the selfish woman up. And it has nothing to do with a ‘day after the night before’ hangover. I just don’t like gratuitous noise and am becoming increasingly intolerant of it. Now some sod has left his old diesel tractor running not four feet from me and gone into the shop.

Does he really think that I want to listen to his engine and savour its exhaust while he’s not there to enjoy the pleasures with me?

It’s funny how sometimes it seems that people know what annoys you and go out of their way to do it, isn’t it?

People here know that this is the day after my birthday because all their kids are on Facebook. Many older people are asking how old I am so they can use the number on their national lottery card tomorrow – the lottery is played on the first and the sixteenth of the month. I do hope that I’m not going to be the source of disappointment to a load of the village oldies.

That bloody woman and her watermelons has finally got to where I’m sitting, so now I have to wait for her to get down to the end of the road/village and come back again, which means fifteen to twenty minutes of a supped up horn and shouting.

I hope you’re having a better day.

All the best,

Owen

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Podcast: The Day After