The Guinea Pig Diaries: Diary Entry from an Out-of-body comedian at home.
Preface: To the three people who read this - I have not written in a while, thus I apologise for the long sentences. This was written on a huge boost of opiods, coffee and St Vincent playing in the background.
12pm - Monday 29th October - Location - Family Kitchen - Pain Level: 7 out of 10.
I am covered in dog hairs. I find them in obscure places that they shouldn’t be, between my toes, behind me ears, my bra. No matter how many times I seem to hear the vacuum - the infinite ‘whrrrr’ downstairs and the thud of my parents footsteps curating it around the house.... it seems by the afternoon there is already a slow drift of the golden and black hair, like dandelions, finding homes over the table, the chairs, the floor, the food bowl, in my bed.
If I had to define my family home in a few words it would be: flowers and dog hairs.
Currently I am propped up with crutches and wheel chair, coffee in easy reach and a collection of ‘Stories of the Saints’ left by my mum, (she is having her confirmation on Wednesday and we've spent the last few days going through the Saints and discussing them). Today I am meant to be researching monetary policy, instead, my only focus is on the economics of my body. I am preoccupied with how my new body works - how to reach something in the most simple way - how to sit up without crying - how to make my way to the toilet with as few movements as possible before having to call someone for help. Having limited mobility means I feel like a puppet who has all the life in it, but needs someone to stick their hand up their back in order to do anything.
Or - as my friend Ryan Lane said sharply via WhatsApp voice messenger last week : “Oh! You’re basically that Colin boy in The Secret Garden! Cool! I can be your Mary Lennox and push you around the garden. [beat]. Does this mean if I come with you to the theatre we get nicer seats cos you’re now disabled?”. Charming Ryan. Charming.