I’m a bit of a poor soul. Now, I don’t know about you, but the only thing I have scheduled to do all week is a creative writing class at York St. John, so I have a lot of time on my hands.
To fill all of the empty hours of the rest of my life I observe all of the National Days on the international calendar. This way every day is like Christmas Day.
National Bean Day in January had me sitting at the table all dressed up, with four tins of Heinz beans and a can opener.
I sputtered and splattered through the next few days, lucky for me the following Monday, January 12th, was John Crapper Day. In honor, I spent all day on the toilet, with my pants pulled up mind you, clutching my mobile phone as I was so lonely sitting there in the dark. I kept checking my texts hoping Hilary wouldn’t text to say Wednesday’s class has been cancelled.
Be Nasty Day came and went with only one casualty, the bathroom mirror was covered in spit and was cracked with a blow from my fist as I only had my reflection to be mean to.
On panic day I hyperventilated into a paper bag and called the police 17 times, exclaiming that someone was trying to break into the house and murder me. They arrested me for wasting police time and I spent the nights in the cells which really sent me into a panic because I knew that at midnight it would be the start of National peanut butter and jelly day and I hadn’t been to Sainsbury’s to collect my gear.
In August on Public Sleep Day I was pecked at by pidgeons until I bled onto the pavement in the Museum Gardens. So much for trying to get a decent kip.
Week after that on Extraterrestrial Day I waited on a bench on Parliament Street and and trudged home at the stroke of midnight, disappointed to have not been abducted by aliens.
September 3rd, one of my favorites, National I’m in Control Day I piddled my pants in the line for the teller at Natwest and had to watch in embarrassment as the bank manager sopped it up with a roll of paper towels, then vomited down my shirt on the way home on the number 5 bus on Haxby Road, right outside the Rowntree Theatre.
Which brings me to this past Tuesday, November 3, National Clean out your Refrigerator Day. I didn’t touch the fridge up for the past for two months because I knew it was coming up and the freezer was caked shut with ice. I could barely pry it open.
I found two ice cube trays which were labeled Johnny and Karl, on the side with a Sharpy. They contained the frozen embryos I produced with husbands number 1 and 4. I chucked them out. I was too busy celebrating National Days these days to entertain the idea of starting a family.
Green and moldy tupperware containers that may have at one point been coleslaw, chilie or applesauce were chucked into the rubbish.
Assorted carcasses of feathered beasts lay tangled and decomposing in the the back of the vegetable drawer. A quart of milk had exploded from from the compression of gas from decay and sprayed the interior of the fridge. The streaks were Roquefort blue streaks of fungus with a furry crust.
I did find, in the egg compartment, the index finger of my neighbor Bob, who I dated last year. I forgot about that. I chopped it off when I was high on crack after he said he cheated on me with Brenda, that bitch who worked the register at the Spar.
After washing down the fridge with warm water and a capful of domestus, I popped the finger into the microwave and sat down to the 10 o’clock news, dipping it into a pot of hummus, which still seemed good, and nibbled away while I watched the footage of a fiery pile up on the A64.
Flipped off the teli at 11:45 and lay out my kit for the next day, a buther’s knife, newly sharpened, a coil of rope, 22 seconals and a quart of Jack Daniels, a tear-stained notebook and a leaky fountain pen. Only 15 more minutes and it would be National Sylvia Plath day.