morning head: Monday, 22nd June, 2015

Of all the traditions started by my late paternal grandfather, a monument by anyone’s reckoning to all that is good in the human species, the one that seems to be made manifest in myself in gargantuan proportions, is the one that in all likelihood going to be the death of me.

I’m not talking about the butter. I like it more than I should, sure, but if the old codger could eat a tub of lard in his dad’s shed with a spoon and still live to a ripe old age then I’m pretty sure my fondness for a cheese-like layer of butter on my toast ain’t going to be what gets me.

No, the habitual morning grumpiness, is what’ll do it, no doubt through the agency of my darling wife. But if by some miracle I manage to escape the ceramic-titanium frying pan in the head, I’m pretty sure these 4am starts are gonna kill me.

My grandfather lived in simpler times. Roles were clear cut. He was the patriarch – albeit a largely relaxed and benevolent one. But you did not go anywhere fucking near the man until he’d been up for at least an hour. Unless it was to bring him a slab of butter with a sliver of toast underneath it.

I don’t have that luxury, more’s the pity. I live in the world of self-help, of open chakras and pilates and “fucking well learn to deal with your emotions you man-child”.

So now it’s all in bed by 8:30, and yoga, and not drinking, and meditation. For fuck’s sake. And getting up at sparrow’s fart to write.

In fact, now that I think about it, the whole argument is moot. I’m already dead. Or, at least, the me I know is. I’m still not very happy about getting out of bed, but at least I’ve been up for three hours, and had my butter, by the time the wifey comes to life.

And I suppose I can begrudgingly admit that the early writing is paying off. New contract signed this week.