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Saturday morning. Not hot, not cold just the kind of weather that feels like a cosmic shrug.
I loaded up the Wav with my faithful wheelchair. Old beast. Secondhand treasure from another life. No shiny new posh van here, just an aging, creaky metal box on wheels that’s been a lifesaver more times than I care to count.
Sure, it’s a money pit. Over two years, the sensors have staged a rebellion wheel sensor gone rogue, three injectors throwing tantrums, and enough warning lights to power a rave. Repairs? Pricier than a night out in Soho on a bad day. But essential? Absolutely.
The nearest hospital is a 45-minute drive away, if you believe the speed cameras, traffic chaos, and a city where everyone’s eyes are glued to their phones rather than the road.
Speaking of eyes, the outskirts greet you with Big Brother’s finest: CCTV cameras perched like vultures on poles, facial recognition tech hungry for your mugshot, and people strapped with body cams as if this was a dystopian reality show.
I get stared at, sure. Mostly like I’m a circus act. I just laugh quietly and wave at the idiots who think asking stupid questions will get them answers. They keep their distance, probably fearing the curse of a sarcastic cripple.
We hit a town ten miles away, hills sprawling like nature’s own opera, an orgasm for the eyes no need for music, just the endless parade of fields and road hum.
The tinnitus racket in my head? Not quite the soundtrack I’d choose, but hey, life’s cruel like that.
Tesco. The necessary evil. Not my favorite place, by a long shot. I try to avoid supermarkets supporting local is a creed, not a hobby.
And then, the phone pings.
Text from the chemist: prescriptions ready from the dreaded “machine of death.”
As we rolled past the chemist, I clamped my mouth shut—no Saturday morning chaos, thank you very much. Albertine laughed at my silence.
No one needs the madhouse of a Saturday morning queue, the sighs of the damned, the shuffle of the walking wounded.
So that’s Saturday morning with the Wav and the wheelchair an adventure in mild dystopia, dark humor, and bleak survival.
Here’s to the old vans, the broken sensors, the city watchers, and the pharmacy machines that never sleep.
Auction Musings: The Retro Monkees Toy Car Bid Meanwhile, while waiting for the local auction house to decide my fate, I’ve put a bid in on a retro Monkees 1960s toy car. Because if I’m going to collect sleepers, why not start small and nostalgic?
Every bid I place somehow turns into a battle for stupid money. It’s like I’m competing in the “Who Will Overpay For metal?” championship. Still, I swear I’ve got an eye for sleepers—even if it’s just the tiny metal kind.
If I snag it, it’ll be the crown jewel of my shelf, a tiny tribute to simpler times and utterly ridiculous auction wars. If not, well… there’s always the next round of overpriced plastic madness.
More interesting morning stuff to come…
I feel the pressure lifting, all this ultraterrestrial stuff stirring my mind, like some cosmic prep for whatever the hell’s next. For now, I’m just here, riding through dystopia, laughing at the absurdity.
“The views in this post are based on my personal
experience. I do not intend harm, only honesty.”
“By ink and breath and sacred rage, I write.
By storm and silence, I survive.”
@goblinbloggeruk - sick@mylivinghell.co.uk