Whenever the clocks go backwards or forwards or whatever it is that they do at this time of year, I find myself rampantly discombobulating. It might be because I don’t want to miss anything, and sleep with one eye open; it may be because it’s too much like being drunk or in blackout, and I think I’ve already missed something.
Whatever: I’m still up at stupid o’ clock wondering what the hell to do with myself. So I start writing nonsense. It’s all there is to do in these quiet white hours when the morning’s like a misty wraith. And I get to thinking: perhaps I’ll polish my rocket.
It’s a decent bit of kit, this rocket. I picked it up at a government auction when no-one was looking. It’s got a big red star on the side, which I like. I’m a bit of a communist, you see. I’m fond of the berets.
It lies in the shed out the back, wrapped in oily rags, awaiting its day of glory. Quietly it lies, patiently, needing no maintenance. You can learn a lot from a rocket.
I don’t often think about my rocket, but knowing I’ve got one back home in the shed puts a spring in my step, I admit. It gives me a sense of enormous well-being. I don’t get so affected by people as would someone who might not have a rocket, because as soon as a person offends, I can say to myself: “Does this situation call for the use of a rocket?” Usually it doesn’t, and if it doesn’t, I may as well forget about it.
Oh, the fantastic scenarios in which I imagine waving my rocket about freely!
Being the proud owner of a rocket has made me much more aware of things. I know what’s happening around me, because I’m always looking, you see. I’m always looking to use it. If a situation arises which calls for the legitimate use of my rocket, by God! I’m not going to miss it.
I can put up with a lot, knowing I’ve got my rocket. The bloke down the hallway who beats up his missus in the middle of the night, for instance. The crack dealers who suck their teeth. The twat on the bus playing pop music on his mobile phone. The dim and the thuggish. Fat women in leggings. Racists. Fascists. Scumbags.
All these, and many more, are ignorant of the fact that I am a man with a rocket.
Lucky for them that I’m an easy going kind of a chap, and not prone to fits of madness.
The rocket is safe with me.