Wordsmoker

I had a good day today. I did some good. I apologised for being a dick to a good friend, both in private and in public. I cared for my mother. I sang aloud, outside. I cut the fuck out of my hedges, fed cats (both mine and a stray) and did the dishes, some light ironing. I got a smile from a rather attractive blonde woman who happened to be passing as I was cutting the fuck out of my aforementioned hedges – that’s better than good, if I’m honest. I played some Bowie, a lot of Queen on my phone’s headphones. I filmed a confrontation in my street between two guys in case it got out of hand and someone pressed charges (it didn’t, and I guess they haven’t). Tomorrow I’m going to cut my neighbour’s hedge. She’s old, kinda alone, and her husband died about four years ago. I normally charge £5 for cutting a hedge because it’s a psychological thing, all to do with the customer (they’ll value my hard work more if I actually charge a little cash) but I’m not going to – I’m just going to cut her hedge as well as I cut mine and not say a fucking thing, because I think she’s the type who likes to be alone. If she pops ’round and drops me some hard-earned? I’ll accept it. But I’m not asking for it. I’ll just cut her hedge and say nothing. It might cheer her up, I dunno. Oh. I bought a Zippo-type lighter from eBay – £2.80, free p + p. It arrived today. I’ve had five cigarettes with it. It’s lit first time, every time. Reason I bought one? It occurred to me last week that a smoker in Scotland really does need a wind-proof lighter. Hence my big purchase. What else did I do? I went to buy petrol for my new lighter at the local shops. It was £1.49, and I gave the guy who owns the shop (James) £1.50. I told him to keep the change and to do good with it. He laughed and put it into one of those charity plastic bottle things you get near cash registers in Pakistani-owned shops here. I walked home in the sunshine, listening to Bowie (The Singles Collection, if you’re a-wondering). This evening I washed more dishes, including the cat bowls. I sat outside as dusk fell with Henry, who sat under my chair for some reason. He was staring at something that wasn’t there the way only cats can do. I then filled the bird feeders, took the trash out and hung up some t-shirts my mum was going to wear today to the doctor. She didn’t go because the pain is too much. About ten minutes ago I asked her if she wanted the doctor to come out, because between you and I? The pain is getting etched onto her face. It’s not nice to look at. Anyway – she told me not to be so dramatic, which got me angry, but I held my anger back. For the record – I’m not being dramatic. If she could see how she looks to me, you’d call a fucking ambulance without asking. That’s my problem, don’t worry about it. Still a bit angry, I made some tea and sat outside in the rear garden with Henry, still under the garden chair, still looking at fuck-all. I calmed down, smoked a cigarette with my new lighter, which lit (again) first time in a light, Scottish breeze. I listened to the sounds of Scotland as it went through 11pm. Road noise lessened. Soft voices could be heard in the distance. And the sun went down. I thought to myself about all the good little things I did today, which are not that great in the scheme of things I know, but good they still are. I felt better. Happy. High on life, almost. I’d cut the fuck out of my hedges, I was looking forward to cutting the fuck out of my neighbour’s hedge tomorrow if the weather holds. To be honest? I didn’t want this day to end. I didn’t want the sun to go down. I wanted that peace and quiet, that watercolour Scottish sunset to stay frozen in time, forever. I stood at my hedges on the street. The sky went a beautiful, reddish blue which I can’t describe. A couple of clouds in the very far distance. It looks like it’s going to be sunny tomorrow in my part of the world. But I got a little blue. About the day ending. I’d accomplished some little things and cared for shit that deserves to be cared for. Then I remembered – and this is going to sound really childish, if not cheesy – that there would be another day tomorrow. It might even be sunny. I can do some good little things tomorrow. My mum might not be in the same amount of pain tomorrow. She might even laugh at my bullshit jokes. Jake and Henry might chill out with Henry’s girlfriend again in the rear garden. I might see three huge fucking seagulls eat some home-made scones I made and didn’t get around to eating because, man – they give me indigestion (I tend to throw any leftover food out for birds and foxes). There’s a whole load of stuff that can happen, and will happen tomorrow. I can’t wait. I can’t wait for the sun to rise again. I can’t wait for tomorrow to come because today just happened to be a good day. I haven’t felt this good in a decade. I can’t wait until tomorrow. It might be shitty or it might be good. I don’t know yet.

But I know I’m lucky. I’m very lucky, sitting here, right now, at my computer box, writing this, looking forward to tomorrow. I have another day. I have tomorrow to look forward to, or to fear, or whatnot. I have a tomorrow. Which is more than I can say for some people. Like twelve people in Aurora, Colorado. A place I’d never heard of until last week. A place I’ll probably never visit, filled with people I’ll probably never meet.

I have a tomorrow. And twelve people in a place I’ll probably never see with my own eyes don’t.

And you all know the reason. The real reason. You’re not stupid. You know what to do. What should really be done.

I’m lucky I have a tomorrow. So are you. Twelve people in Aurora, Colorado, don’t.

You know what to do.