The happy place

Well, hello there! It’s Friday and I hear the sound of flames in the fireplace as I lay now on the yellow sofa with the dogs resting by my side.

And I have my health. Some people equate taking care of themselves with going frequently to the gym and drinking ridiculous amounts of water. That is a scam, I think, because self care is to be found in this french bakery where they have croissants.

In my youth, I — a handsome young man with a friendly demeanour, having a cigarette behind my ear (unlit) — was working as a terminal worker sorting mail or driving the forklift. I’d unload trailers or train wagons and there were these glass shelters where we would smoke cigarettes and drink vending-machine coffee while waiting for these various vehicles to arrive.

There one easter I talked to this greek guy in his forties, built like a tank. He said through his thick mustasch that instead of candy, we should’ve gotten fruit or even sandwiches, but not candy.

Some time later, at the gym, he busted his back, and I never saw him again!