RAIN ON ME

 RAIN ON ME (STUART SIMMONS)

I find solace in melancholy. When Summer becomes Autumn, and the leaves drop and turn brown, I retreat inwards. Burrowing deep into layers of misery, I bore through unhappy memories, examining and analyzing their content. Memories of being dumped, girls I was too afraid too ask out, disappointing Christmas presents, England world cup and Euro exits, being dumped, girls I was too afraid too ask out, grandparents passing away, being dumped and girls I was too afraid too ask out, dropping out of School, being dumped....... I keep on tunneling deeper and deeper until my gormless head pops out at the other end (my arse most probably) and I feel back to normal, until it rains again.

A cycle of suffering. Pointless, but I can't seem to stop it. I don't want to stop it, I like it. Sort of. Presently, I'm sat in the kitchen by the back door, observing the rain. Switching my focus between the lines of liquid descending from the sky into the garden and the rain drops on the window doing what looks like some obscure contemporary dance piece as they slowly make there way to the bottom. I'm glad I'm not at work, that would remove the solace and amplify and distort the misery already present.

A hot cup of tea embraces my hand and radiates to the the tips of my long boney fingers. It's like the modern day equivalent, or the slightly poor man's but never the less pressed for time and space equivalent, of having a roaring log fire in the living room, whilst one is perched in the comfiest of Grandad style arm chairs, sucking on Whethers Originals (or fizzy Chewits in my case, whatever happened to them)? listening to Vivladi (or speed garage in my case, whatever happened to that?), reading the collected works of Shakespeare (Or in my case Essential Punisher, yes, he's still going strong)

I'm not at work today as it's my loo day. My assertive, communication and team player skills are not required until tomorrow. The customers will be missing my service, the service I give, as a customer service assistant, assisting the customers. The center of a squillion callers will miss my presence, I'm sure a shrine will be placed at my desk where my body was last seen, yesterday, until tomorrow, when I return. A minutes silence will held at 11 a.m.

Truthfully, work don't even know If I’m coming or going. My team-leader / boss / nemesis / stalker, Noel phoned me up this morning on my home number asking where I was. I told him I was at home, hence I was able to answer the home phone. Plank. I reminded him it was my day off. He paused for 3 seconds (I counted) and mumbled something I just about made out as an apology followed by another pause (4 seconds this time) breaking the silence with a sudden enforced injection of some pathetic authority, to hide his blushes. The kind my Dad once used when Mum walked in the front room just as he was looking at porn, barking something about trying to be creative and his privacy needed to be respected or else he would loose his concentration. Noel decided to remind me I had an appraisal due in 2 weeks and 3 days. I told Noel I'd be looking to seek compensation for the medical damage caused when I had to suddenly awake from a deep slumber to answer the phone. The dramatic rise in blood sugar required to get out of bed and answer the phone caused my heart undue stress. He hung up the phone. Bellend.

Being that I was awake after that phone call, I decided I might as well remain up and have some breakfast. It was an opportunity to sit down and watch the Holy-oaks omnibus I'd recorded on Sunday. The wonders of the recordable SKY box. As I loaded up the episode I remembered as a young child recording a WCW title fight between Sting and Ravishing Rick Rude (WCW was the slightly poor mans equivalent to WWF which was on SKY, we only had terrestrial back then). I'd eagerly anticipated this fight for weeks and was heartbroken when the VHS tape chewed halfway though, ruining the picture.

I'd finished the omnibus having only just noticed that 2 sugar coated and now dry cornflakes were stuck to my dressing-gown, from where Id been eating breakfast on the settee, when the rain started to pour. I then abandoned the spilled surgery milk on Mum and dad's settee and dived, like my life depended on it, straight for the kettle.

Since I was a young I've always watched and listened to the rain, and ever since, I'd always stop what I was doing and take a moment to let the gray clouds sing to me. Stop. Look. Listen. I never did listen in School. Much. I was probably looking out of the window at the rain (those windows with the black square grids inside, apparently they made them shatter proof). Information goes in one ear, with only partial amounts of it being captured by the nerve endings associated with memory which seem to scramble it and store it in the wrong place, while the majority of the information floats through unchallenged to my other ear and drifts out into the abyss, only to evaporate into air molecules which get absorbed into gloomy looking rain clouds who then spit it back straight towards earths floor, where it gets trodden on, by me. Grey clouds pissing out my education, as I stop, look and listen. Swimming in my own downpour of educational downfall.

The mug of tea in my right hand is empty. The rain appears to have halted and there is a threat of sunshine, possible rainbow action. I had a vague arrangement to go and meet my friend Reece and his chubby little brother Chris. I look at the clock, then at the kettle, then at the clock, then at the kettle again. My dressing gown stinks of soggy cornflakes, and that general morning smell. Rain starts lashing back down again. On autopilot, I walk straight to the kettle. I was supposed to have met Reece 10 minutes ago. I can hear my mobile phone ringing.