mr_meany

I have, unfortunately, fallen ill of late.

I blame my circumstances on the germ-infested children who attend my class. Although near to adult age, the brats never learned how to properly cover their mouth when coughing or sneezing, nor do they wash after using the toilet. Then they handle their test papers and books with unwashed hands. And who has to touch them and handle their filth? Who do you think. Mr. Meany has to handle their filth.

But that is not why I'm writing today.

In between sips of herbal tea and television reruns, I have come to a startling realisation - That the bathroom wallpaper does indeed resist mould and mildew. Helen had her doubts initially but it's plain to see that reason would eventually win over hysterical speculation. I am pleased to be on the side of reason.

While vomiting several times this morning (a direct result of my child-inflicted sickness), I traced the patterns in the wallpaper, in between heaves, to distract my attention away from the unpleasantness. I surmised that the roses and ivy were meant as a checkerboard pattern: the roses set as the inner diamond in each set of nine, with the ivy growing around as the familiar "X" pattern within the checkerboard. Again I would vomit, pause to collect myself, then return to considering the wallpaper.

As my stomach began to settle, my thoughts wandered to the classroom: What were the children doing? Who was selected as a substitute? Will the children have completed their homework assignments?

More vomit.

And more introspection: Although the timely selection of the correct wallpaper had proven to be a remarkable accomplishment, I can't help but feel unfulfilled by my daily life. And, although I remain fascinated by history, the thought of spending my remaining years surrounded by children, well, it simply makes me sick to my stomach. Of course, my stomach is quite willing to purge its contents, but extracting my professional life from such miserable circumstances (ie. children) could prove to be more trouble than its worth.

I continue this way for about two hours: sickness, wallpaper, sickness, teaching. Eventually my stomach decides that there is nothing left to purge, so I return to the couch.

I watch television until I realise that the flashing pictures and sound are responsible for the feeling of vertigo that has slowly washed over me.

My wife, Helen Meany, returns home. We briefly discuss the wallpaper. She voices her disapproval, and I return to the television.