It is nine in the morning and I’m hung over with fantastically throbbing lobes and probably almost broke and I think I gave someone my phone number last night and I slept only three hours and now - on Easter Sunday - at still nine in the morning someone have decided to take a probably trusty old chainsaw out of its hibernal retreat to let it taste a particularly feasty serving of crooked birch logs.
My neighbour is preparing his winter supply of luxurious logs to spend in the fireplace the professional mason built for him not long ago. He is doing this on a Sunday morning. Nine in the morning on Easter day, 40 metres away from his neighbour with the seriously engorged head who gave his phone number to someone last night.
In a short hour he will compete with the nearby church bells in the race to make my worn head explode into space like a water melon meeting up with a stick of dynamite and the yearning hands of an ordnance expert fresh out of the Explosives, Testosterone and You ground course.
I will not make him stop the instrument of hell so I can revere in hungover righteousness since I sincerely think a little suburbia anarchism is in order today. Sometimes I am just another borderline nutcase with a wish for sparks to fly. The last guy they reportedly nailed to a piece of wood for disturbing the peace is the reason they have washed their Swedish cars and taken off in force to swarm at the house of their God. Annoyingness is, after all, context sensitive.
Heathens get to stay home unshaven in the sofa and perhaps catch some rays of a late April sun reflecting off the pages of a thick enjoyable book they are trying to read in spite of dehydration and blurry vision. Yeah, and to operate noisy lumberjack tools.
This day - in the no man’s land between sonorous church bells and a chainsaw sounding like it has Grace Jones’ PMS - can only get better.
At least up until the point at which the phone rings and the number on the display is completely unknown to me. At that moment, I will realize what I was up to last night and cringe in the IKEA sofa, sit straight up, pause the episode of Band of Brothers I had planned to watch today and explain myself to the other end.
Unless, of course it’s my mother calling from a payphone to inform me of some turbo pensioner activity involving long drives in little Korean cars or just to ask me how I am on a Sunday morning in the outskirts of the city that fell asleep sometime in the last century. She will of course know nothing about chainsaw hangovers, neighbours with ill winds to blow, church bells from the Twilight Zone and crumpled cash register receipts with some guys phone number on it. The real reason she calls every other Sunday morning is of course to find out if I leaned to the left or to the right on the 0330 bus home. I always provide her with great mysteries. Ha Ha.
The bells are calling the faithful to congregation now.
This is how I am going to spend my surreally hung over heathen Easter Sunday.
Until the phone rings.