October 25 New Moon
Buried Claude Harroche today. Miserable wake but for the surprise appearance of Leila Armstrong. She told the time travelling coffee machine story. Bunk but wonderful. Sad day. Morose and drunk. Good night.
Keep returning to the coffee machine story. Does Leila have too strong a reputation to pedal bunk? Even if in the pub. I am unsettled.
Can’t shake the shadow of Claude’s funeral.
At five foot eight and twenty-three stone, my body mass is forty-eight, dense. I am in danger of becoming a black hole. The Professor Peter Bar Anomaly sucking all that is around him into his mass. Ironic then that I cannot attract a female of the species.
Here’s the thing. I know more about the intricate workings of the universe than almost anyone on earth. But I have never known love.
Observed self naked from all angles. Belly hang exceeds penis length. Old chap not visible from front. Also chap is much reduced by extensive subcutaneous fat. Can’t recall the last time he stood to attention. No good reason or no capability? Attempted to bring him to life. Sight of self lifting curtain of soft white flesh in mirror not arousing.
November 10th Lunar eclipse (pretty good)
Bloody Harroche, always pleased with himself. Opposite of me. The Leila Armstrong story, that’s what changed my thinking. A part of me believes it. That sense of deja vu in the bar. I could almost reach out and touch it.
I’m sixty, overweight, unattractive, but financially strong, single and desirous of a mate. Every equation has a resolution. The x to my y is an internet bride. Can’t believe it took me so long to realise.
I willing to acknowledge my psychology is Newtonian. Harrochian erosion of professional certainty has provoked a personal reassertion.
Have begun online research. Profile established.
Also (big news) have started online programme, “Easy Exercise for the Obese Athlete.” Something oxymoronic about it. Made it two-thirds of the way through episode one.
Online video call. AKA interrogation with potential Ukrainian wife. Olga Obbizhysvit. After pleasantries, it went like this:
How old are you?
You look fat. How much do you weigh?
Twenty three stone.
In kilos please.
One hundred and fifty?
Are you a millionaire?
I am sorry. I am not that desperate.
She was from Eastern Ukraine. Her mother and father were killed in the fighting and her own house burned out. A potential bride’s desperation must be greater than my ability to repel. That is the equation. In this case, war was not enough.
Made it four-fifths of the way through ‘Easy Exercise for the Obese Athlete’ episode one.
Video call tomorrow with Diwa De la Cruz, Filipino wife prospect!
Completed episode one of Easy Exercise for the Obese Athlete. Day off tomorrow, then episode two.
November 17th Leonids!
Yesterday I resolved the desperation equation. Diwa’s level of desperation exceeded that of Olga’s. She was wiling to accept an obese sexagenarian husband. Diwa was no older than twenty and pretty as a flower. Today I sent her five hundred pounds. I hope the money eases her situation. The internet bride hunt is off. I cannot be the ugly resolution of a young girl’s desperate circumstance.
Still on episode two. There are thirty episodes. Do I have the fortitude for such an endeavor?
Buggered back attempting seated hip thrusts at the beginning of episode three. Turns out the oxymoronic elements were ‘Easy’ and ‘Exercise’.
Called an ambulance but the paramedics declined to move me. Referred me to a home call physio. Upshot is I am now floor bound, supine, and voice typing. Physio informs me spasm will ease with time and has organised care visit! Claude bloody Harroche.
Sweet Jesus! Carer is a titan. Six foot two if she’s an inch, forearms like coiled snakes. Face more Dali than Da Vinci. Insists on Mrs Beech. Refused me diet coke. Said I was fat and it wouldn’t help. Harsh. Instead, she provided water and vegetable soup. Back is no better, partial mobility only. Formidable Beech to return tomorrow.
Oh my. Beech returned. Neither a glamorous nor attractive woman by any measure. Delivered a vigorous ‘bed’ bath. Remarkable news. I think the old chap stirred. After the event she retired to the kitchen, leaving me in a tremulous condition. What to do? Look or not look? Alive or dead? Schrodinger’s erection. I did not observe. Stirring remains unconfirmed.
Post possible stirring of chap event, Mrs Beech continued her healthy feeding. Water, weak tea, and chicken broth. My mobility has improved a little. I can now move on all fours if I maintain a slow and even pace. Standing is out of the question.
Day four contemplating the ceiling rose. It is not as intricate as I imagined. Maybe too many layers of paint have dulled the artistry.
The cat is alive! Another vigorous clean from Mrs Beech. Old chap responded in the affirmative. I feel sure Mrs Beech noted the event. In return, I noticed a hole in her shoe.
Just work shoes. She said.
Maybe I can buy you a new pair. I said.
Of course she refused. She is a woman with values. We settled instead for a deep clean of the kitchen in return for my handsomely funding new shoes.
Six days of contemplation and possible drift into madness. I have a twofold hypothesis.
Claude Harroche used his mighty intellect to create a coffee machine.
Claude Harroche used his mighty intellect to create a time machine that also made coffee.
That machine made the best coffee I ever tasted. Did he send coffee quarks back and forth in time? Time roast coffee?
Have also considered the powerful sense of deja vu. It coincided with Leila Anderson’s arrival and the scent of ozone. Could it be literal? Had I experienced that situation before? Was Claude’s wake the closing of a time loop?
Hallelujah! Vesuvial moments! Mrs Beech attended again. Normal procedure, some fuss, then the bed bath. The old chap stood like a sentry at Buckingham Palace. Beech withdrew from the scene and returned with right hand double bagged. The normal latex glove encased in a golden yellow marigold. Resumed subterranean activity with a grip like a doberman savaging a chicken. Completed the job.
Noticed Mrs Beech’s winter coat wasn’t up to much, and, in return for a thorough vacuuming of the place, have replaced it. Disgraceful how poorly paid carers are.
December 21st Solstice.
Life has a pleasant rhythm. Hours of contemplation, healthy food, vigorous bed baths, the occasional appearance of a marigold. Mrs Beech and I have fallen into a transactional but mutually beneficial relationship. House has never been so spick and Mrs Beech is increasingly well presented. Only cloud on the horizon is my returning mobility.
Need to find a resolution to this that is not my becoming a willing partner in the remake of Stephen King’s Misery.
March 20rd Equinoxal entry!
After a calendar quarter of silence I am four stone down and have completed ‘Easy Exercise for the Obese Athlete’ twice. I am progressing through its successor, ‘Exercise for the Obese Athlete. Mrs Beech lives in as my housekeeper and keeps the place ferociously tidy. She retains an iron grip on my diet, save for Friday evening, and walks me an hour a day, hence the weight loss.
Friday evening is treat night. I am allowed steak, chips, two large glasses of red, Eton mess (or other school boy type desert), and a glass of port. After which a towel is draped and the single marigold appears. There is no reciprocation, or indeed eye contact. I believe Mrs Beech finds her satisfaction with someone or something else.
Have found a new professional vigour. My thinking is sharp and clear. Harroche wrote little of note but have returned to Leila Anderson’s exquisite early work on ‘Quantum Dis-entanglement’.
I am sure the answer lies within!