Was June meant to be a month of silence?
A debut directorial effort and a script for a musical next Easter. They were enough to get his heart pumping again and his head, reminding him of the emotional high from hearing the words he typed being spoken / recited to an audience of hundreds.
However, that reminder failed to address the negative feelings of inadequacy that bubbled within him.
Gargantuan effort, a voice within whispered.
A miracle if you can pull them off, another voice sneered.
To ward them off, he had to keep the momentum going. Chugging along is best when the alternative is simply to let go.
A phone call unsettled him today. The lady on the other end of the line was irate. She almost spoke in legalese, claiming that he backed off from a deal. Despite his attempts at clarification, she insisted that he was the one backing off. Apologising twice during that short five-minute conversation failed to placate her either.
At the end of it, he knew he was in the wrong. However, he wondered if the lady really had the right to use legalese to prove her point.
He had the mother of all scares last Friday. A trip to the toilet and back was the culprit. The bottle containing liquid expelled from his body was found to contain high levels of sugar. The doctor responsible for certifying him fit for employment “tsked” loudly the moment he entered her room.
“What did you have for lunch earlier?” she asked as his bottom settled uneasily on the patient chair.
He muttered out his reply. The packet of sugar cane juice was a ready scapegoat.
“We found high sugar levels in your urine,” the doctor explained while flicking the tiny sealed plastic bag which held a strip. Never in his life did the colour green scare him so much.
“Aiyah,” the doctor continued. “You are overweight la. If you take off 10 kilograms off your weight, you’ll be alright.”
As he headed for the door – contemplating a glucose-free life of injections and pills, the doctor exclaimed that he would have to come back for another urine test tomorrow.
Needless to say, he spent the rest of that Friday with images of needles flashing in his head.
The next day, he found himself walking gingerly and sheepishly into the clinic, when the day before, he was striding in like a “gangsta”. He was embarrassed as he took the bottle from the clinic receptionist – the same gal who passed him a similar bottle yesterday.
As he settled down on the sofa in the clinic after a harrowing trip to the toilet – muttering under his breath “not green please, not green please” repeatedly, he wrung his hands nervously while casting worried glances at the counter where the gals dip the strips into the liquid.
His agony didn’t last too long.
“D W, you can go home!”
The sweetest words he heard all weekend. But he still had to blurt out a “huh”.
“Your urine is okay. You can go now,” came the reassuring reply.
Nevertheless, he thought, it’s Oolong tea from now on.
And maybe really get down to exercising.
In other news, it’s the first day back at corporate slavery for him tomorrow. He really should have had hit the sack… like two hours ago.