the decay of lying

The written and spoken content of this web site is protected by copyright. Unless otherwise attributed Copyright © Andy Wood 2013 All rights reserved. No part of this document may be reproduced without the written consent of the author.

Chairman of the Bored

 

It wasn’t the first time this had happened. And it certainly wasn’t going to be the last. Just get a grip.Rob told himself. Don’t panic.The new practical approach he was adopting was sure to see him through.

 

Rob was... bored. Really bored. Really seriously fucking bored. He’d known it was coming for days, looming on the horizon. If he cast his mind back, he could remember a time when he was busy, too busy, well – too tired after being too pissed after being only a little bit busy, if truth be told. And as he had sat there nursing his aching body he had said to himself, what I need is a day off.Flipping the page in his diary he had seen his reward: a day off and hot on its heels, his nemesis: another day off. Two whole days. Forty eight hours. (Rob reached for a piece of paper and began scribbling furiously) two thousand eight hundred and eighty minutes. Well, that didn’t sound so bad. One hundred and seventy two thousand eight hundred seconds... that DID sound bad. Rob flinched at the prospect: Two whole days where nothing was expected of him; two whole days utterly without obligation.

 

He could feel the fear and anxiety rising inside him. Get a grip.With an effort he fought to push it back down, keep his thoughts clear and calm. The new practical approach... Stick to the plan - remember.Fill the time. Give yourself little targets to meet. (That was it – it was all coming back to him now.) Even if it’s only mundane little things, it doesn’t matter. Keep active. Keep busy. Tidy the house. Pay that bill. Clear the laundry. Get something in for tea. This was so much better. Rob felt a bit foolish for letting the idea of these “empty” hours get on top of him. Pretty soon, if he carried on inventing work at this rate, he’d be rushed of his feet, probably wouldn’t get it all done. He was delighted with his new positive approach to the day. In fact, now that he thought about it, he’d already taken the precaution of making a little list of things to do the other night. His moment of panic had forced it from his mind, but now that he was a bit more rational he remembered. Lucky he’d thought to write it all down because actually the house was already pretty tidy, his bills were paid by direct debit, the laundry was all neatly folded away and there was plenty in the fridge that he could conjure a quick evening meal from. Outside jacket pocket.Gratefully he closed his hand around the crumpled scrap of paper and drew it out. Carefully unfolding it, he was immediately reassured by the words written in a bold confident hand at the top: “Rob’s To Do List”. He smiled in relief and satisfaction – everything was going to be alright – before moving down the page. Item 1, he read, Make List. . One hundred and seventy two thousand five hundred and forty three seconds to go...

 

OK... this was getting serious, no matter how much thought and effort he invested in them, those seconds weren’t ticking by any quicker. If anything, they seemed to be slowing up, especially seconds “thirty one” to “fifty nine” – those on the upward sweep of the hand, fighting gravity. He looked again at his List. It remained stubbornly unwritten. How about a cup of tea? Just relax for a moment. And what fucking use is that? Boiling the kettle would take... ooh, about a hundred and forty seconds, give or take – barely worth the effort. And as for relaxing – are you kidding? With that much time stretching ahead of him? A few minutes relaxation was no use to Rob – what he needed was a coma or nothing. It was a cruel state of affairs: the more time at his disposal, the harder Rob found it to focus his mind and settle on any one thing. He needed some company, ideally, not his own. Perhaps the Jehovah’s Witnesses were doing the rounds – he could invite them in and discuss his existential theories. Rob had several unwritten papers that he could call on to back up his assertions. Well, not entirely unwritten, he was very pleased with the title: Existential angst – what’s the point?It was a long shot but Rob thought he had better be prepared: He got the tea and biscuits ready. Just in case.

 

He picked up his phone and began flicking through the entries in his phonebook... All those numbers carefully stored away over the years and diligently transferred with each change of handset. How good it would be to renew the odd acquaintance, catch up with a couple of chums. Rob felt his mood lifting at the very thought. Still, it was a slightly nervy moment – that opening gambit, that initial greeting. He tried running it over in his mind a few times. Hey, how’ve you been? Hey, what’s up? You busy? Fancy a drink?Would that sound innocent enough...? Or would the strain in his voice show, would the real message be all too clear: Please help me. I’m so fucking bored. My life is an empty vessel. Please distract me from myself for just a short while. stared in frustration at the scrolling names, a long list of close personal... “acquaintances.” Fuck me! Not a real friend he could call on, or had the nerve to call on, among them. Silently he categorised them in his mind: Too busy; too irritating; too wonderful; too much the secret object of his heart’s desire; oh... and even a couple who persisted in being too dead.

 

There was nothing for it: only alcohol could save him now. If Rob mixed the remaining hours liberally with alcohol he was bound to be able to lose the odd second here or there. At last, decision made, plan of action settled on: Time for a drink. But what? He used to like beer... He still liked beer. Loved beer. But that was no good. Rob was not getting any younger. No longer did he proudly sport the figure and constitution of a twenty year old. These days it required a little more thought. How to strike the balance between alcoholic oblivion and premature weight gain and bloating? The last thing Rob wanted was to look like a fat bastard in his coffin. He cursed and set off in pursuit of his next hangover.