Pupa

I was about to launch into a story, but lost confidence in it. Yesterday's anecdote may have set the bar too high.

In short: late last night, I knocked some cereal down the back of the fridge and had to clean the whole area.

That summary is fine. I probably would have just inserted some unnecessary metaphors to pad it out.

It certainly seemed dramatic at the time.

Let's put it all behind us.

***

I wrote the above last week. The fridge incident is ancient history. I'd forgotten I even owned an area.

It's a different world now. And a different week. A different month, even. Everything is different.

We're over half way through the year, which seems ridiculous. The older you get, the faster you get (older). I've been writing in short sentences again. I thought I had slain that structural beast. I'll try to make this one quite long and, if it can possibly be arranged, a constituent of a lengthy paragraph which will convince me, you, and any people poking their heads over your shoulder, eyes forward, frantically scanning your screen, that I can write an epic novel set against the background of me not actually doing that.

Paragraphs can be a strain. Man was not meant to build so mighty a word-hut. It's like the Tower of Babel. I can't really remember what the moral of that story was, but I think it's something to do with words and tall things. I'm going to stay brusque.

Let''s get on board the dialogue train. As you may remember, I'm a master when it comes to putting words in the mouths of characters or inanimate objects that have mouths (e.g. plastic rivers etc).

Traffic Warden: Excuse me, madam.

Gloweria: Yes?

Traffic Warden: Are you aware that your child has expired?

Gloweria: What?

Traffic Warden: Your child, madam. It expired [*CHECKS WATCH*] eight minutes ago.

She checks the back seat and sees the warden is correct.

Gloweria: Oh. Yes, I'm sorry about that. I was just going to get some change.

Traffic Warden: Be that as it may...

Gloweria: Come on. Please. It was only eight minutes.

Traffic Warden: It doesn't matter how long it's been. It's expired.

Gloweria: But, eight minutes? He's still warm, for goodness sake!

Traffic Warden: There's no grey area here, madam. More of a pale blue. I'll have to write you a ticket.

Gloweria: You don't have to.

Traffic Warden: The law is the law.

Gloweria: [*FRUSTRATED SIGH*] The problem... with people like you... is that you have no compassion.

Traffic Warden: I'm not paid to have compassion, madam. I'm paid to ensure that any children who may be inside a vehicle are still within their allotted lifespan.

Gloweria: THIS IDEA IS GOING NOWHERE.

Traffic Warden: I agree. [*FRANCE*]

***

How do you know when you're jaded? I'm certainly jader than I was, but I'm curious to know when the process will be complete. It is always a gradual change? Or is it like a chipper caterpillar climbing into a chrysalis and emerging an entirely jaden butterfly?

Perhaps jadening is just part of life. It goes hand in hand with knowledge and experience. The jaded man (or woman) is a learned man (or likewise).

It should not be seen as cynicism, but as ripening. Each person is a reverse-banana, getting greener and harder as we get older. The facts have presented themselves; we are adapting.

Those people who do not become jaded remain yellow and soft. They bruise easily.

Jadening is strengthening. To be jaded is to be protected.

I think I was born partially jaded. In childhood photos, I look both suspicious and bored. I'm yawning in some of them. But the older you get, the easier it is to put on the green jacket.

Not the jealousy jacket. That's a different shade of green.

Nor is it the hemp-woven environmentalist jacket.

It is the jade jacket. It is comfortable and has many pockets. No-one can ever touch you if you wear the jade jacket. Even if you'd like them to. The zip sticks.

***

That's an extract from the blog post I'm writing at the moment. I'm not sure where it's going to go from there. I think I might follow it with three asterisks and a sentence explaining what it is.

July is already shaping up to be the best month ever. Two days in, and still no drunken sword-sharpening accidents. Not for me, anyway. I evade the blade as a matter of course. And avoid the bloid if things get hairy.

Yes. Yes. I will stop writing. Thank you. It seems so obvious now.