Now, you see, everything I do, everything I say, the young’ns consider hilarious. “You say things aloud that most people don’t even dare to think.” Indeedy. Yours truly all over. Which makes it of course very easy to entertain them. No matter what random comment I may make, drunk or sober, but the young’ns will giggle. Sometimes laugh even. And always take the piss out of me afterwards.
Unless when I talk about A, whom they hate. With a passion. Big-headed me thought at first it was because they didn’t appreciate the attention I devote to her. I know now they don’t like A because she upsets me now and then. Ok, most of times. They are such lovely, intelligent, mature people. Christ, compared to how I was that age, this age even, it’s mind-blowing. Sometimes it gets quite surreal as I try to defend A while I know they are right. And then repeating to A, almost word for word, what they told me, claiming their convincing arguments as my own. Did I mention “mature” previously? Defo, not applying to me. But they still like me. Still accept me loving A even when they get the wrong end of the stick during animated arguments. Or me just plainly telling them off to mind their own business. Oh, I’m sorry for that, all right. But I will probably do the same tomorrow, so what’s the point in feeling sorry? And they keep on giggling.
Where were we? Ah yes, the young’ns will hardly ever take me serious. Which I like. But can also be rather annoying.
“You sleepwalked again? That is so funny.”
“It sounds funny but it isn’t, let me tell you. In the past, I have found myself in Soho at 2 o’clock at night with nothing but boxer shorts on. Police had to come and all. Then there was the scaffolding incident when my dreamy self decided it would be a good idea to climb the scaffolding of my apartment. Also in nothing but boxer shorts. Up to the sixth floor. Thank God, no police this time, otherwise that would have made the papers. And these are the incidences that woke me up. Fuck knows what I do the other nights when I safely find my bed again and can’t remember.”
“That is hysterical!”
“It is embarrassing more than anything else. Two of my ex-grilfriends told me I tried to have sex with them in my sleep. Not only tried, apparently we did have sex which wasn’t very pleasant for them. And not only girlfriends. There was an occasion once with a female friend who had a boyfriend at the time. Not good.”
“That is soooooooo funny.”
“I told you, it’s not funny.”
“Oh, man, get over it, it is!”
So to hammer it home to them, I showed them the massive bruises on my legs, arms, neck and back.
“Jesus! How did you get those?”
“Don’t know.”
“What d’you mean, you don’t know? Did you get beaten up?”
“That’s how I woke up this morning. I can only assume I must have fallen down the stairs during the night. If that’s the case, it’s a fucking miracle, I didn’t break anything.”
“You were probably just pissed last night.”
“Wasn’t. Went to bed sober. And when did you ever see me so smashed that I couldn’t walk, talk or defend myself anymore, anyway? Hey? Exactly, never!”
No more giggles this time. I could see the concern in their eyes, because they could see the concern in mine.
So I talked to my GP who is not only brilliant at what he does, he is a lovely man as well. I am now booked in a specialised sleeping clinic for a thorough examination in January. They are going to observe and analyse me with electrodes, computers, cameras and whatnot. I should bring my normal sleeping gear but what on earth is normal sleeping gear? Do these NHS consultants think that people my age still sleep with teddy bears? Suppose I had one. How embarrassing if they caught me on camera trying to shag my teddy bear?”
Having said that, in my perverted mind, that would be rather cool.
