Michael's Bathroom

                    Michael's  Bathroom   ©

                      

                                by

                          Michael  Casey

         Six months previously Michael had decorated his living room,  he

had to, the white walls had turned to a nicoteen stained yellow in places

such  was the downside of having a South facing living room.  Now it  was

 

the turn of the bathroom again.  The bathroom was very small,  not  even

 

enough room to swing a cat,  it was about 7 foot by six foot,  which was

 

just big enough for the bath,  the sink and the bog. Why did people want

 

big bathrooms anyway? You weren't going to hold dinner parties in there,

 

or  go  jogging,  yes Michael was used to and by now satisfied  with  his

 

small  bathroom.  However it always seemed to need decorating,  he  just

 

needed to open the window more often and let the steam out.  Michael just

 

loved to wallow in the bath like a Hippopotamous,  he had a radio on  the

 

windowsill  so he could listen to Heart FM while he shaved and bathed  and

 

watched  the spiders.  There were spiders galore in his  bathroom,  his

 

mother  always said spiders brought money with them,  perhaps  snared  in

 

their webs,  Michael even looked under the bath behind the panel just  in

 

case  the spiders had indeed brought gold with them,  sadly all he  found

 

was yet more spiders and their webs.

        Years ago at work the offices were tarted up,  so new carpet  was

 

laid  in  the reception,  so Michael had begged for the off  cuts,  and

 

persuaded Paul Robinson to give him a lift home with it. Once home though

 

it was late Michael got out some very sharp scissors and laid the carpet in

 

the bathroom, he'd have a posh bathroom now, no more cold lino for him.

Actually  he did make a good job of the carpet fitting,  there  was  some

 

left over too. Now the bad thing about ordinary carpet in the bathroom is

 

that it gets manky,  firstly because Michael splashed a lot in the bath,

 

his mother had always told him off for splashing in the bath since he  was

 

a child,  she was afraid the water would leak though the ceiling into the

 

living  room below.  He did not have that problem now in his own house,

 

why, because he had a concrete floor. So the carpet got wet, due to the

 

splashing in the bath. Michael was also a bad shot, so he'd occasionally

 

piss  on  the floor,  when he came rushing home dying for  a  piss  after

 

having too many shandies.  Also if you spill domestos or other bleach  on

 

carpet it changes colour.

         As for the ceiling and walls,  they needed cleaning and painting

 

every  now and then because of all the steam and Michael not  opening  the

 

window  often  enough.  So Michael would go up the road to Fads  and  buy

 

five litres of white emulsion for a fiver, then scattering newspapers all

 

over the bathroom he'd attack the walls and ceiling. He soon got high and

 

had  a headache with all the paint fumes,  even though the window  was

 

wide  open,  the  radio  was blairing too,  he  always  had  music  on

 

constantly,  whether he was painting,  eating, washing shaving  or just

 

picking his nose. Michael's painting had more attack than finesse to it,

 

splash it here, splash it there, quantity more than quality, his father

 

had always told him to use a small amount on the brush,  a tiny amount,

 

but Michael always overloaded his brush,  paint was cheap after all,  a

 

tin  of paint only cost the price of a couple of pints and a bag of  chips

 

after all.     

 

         Once finished Michael was splattered in paint, his grey hair now

 

turned white,  his painting clothes,  now more paint than clothes,  his

 

watch  had a white thumb print on it,  his underpants had paint on too,

 

for  no  matter  what  he  did  he  was  always  hitching  his  jeans  and

 

consequently he had paint everywhere.  Michael stepped back to admire his

handiwork,  but being as the bathroom was so small he bumped into the bog

 

and ending up sitting on it.”It'll do” was his usual comment,  and it

 

would  have too,  he couldn't afford a real decorator.A fiver to do  his

 

bathroom,  but a decorator would charge 100 times that and take days, it

 

took Michael an hour and a half tops,  he'd finish in time for Star  Trek

 

and that was important,  he had his priorities right.  So looking at his

 

splattered  watch,  Michael gathered up the paint  splattered  newspaper

 

which was protecting his fancy carpet.  The only trouble though was  the

 

fact that his shoes were stuck to the newspapers,  so Michael had to  sit

 

on the bog and pull the newpaper off his shoes,  invariably a spot or two

 

of  paint  stayed on the carpet.  So Michael had rub hard  to  clean  the

 

carpet,  and  take his shoes off so that he  wouldn't  leave  footprints

 

everywhere.”Ah it'll do,” repeated Michael as he looked back at  the

 

bathroom from the safety of the kitchen,  he'd then strip off and put all

 

his  painting clothes into the washing machine, invariably the light  was

 

fading now, so Michael had the kitchen light on, so his neighbours would

 

be  treated to the dubious  privilege of seeing Michael naked  and  paint

 

spattered standing in his kitchen.

          Star  Trek  was great as usual,  Michael  only  recognised  the

 

metaphors  after the show,  but he really enjoyed the show,  he'd  been

 

watching it for 30 years now, the original and then the follow on shows.

After  his  dinner Michael ventured back into the bathroom,”Who  needs

 

decorators,  the  theiving bastards".  Michael was satisfied  with  his

 

handiwork,  it'd do till the next time.  The next time came,  when  the

 

carpet was manky,  so Michael threw out the carpet and searched under the

 

bed in the spare room,  that’s where he kept the rest of the carpet.  As

 

luck  would  have  it there was just enough to cover  the  bathroom  floor

 

again.So once more he got out the dangerous sissors and cut the carpet  to

 

shape,  and yes he did do a good job of it, carpet fitting he could do,

 

it was painting he was useless at. Jackson Pollark, the artist who threw

 

paint  at  the canvas would have been impressed by  Michael's  bathroom,

 

anybody else would have said,”was there an explosion?"

        So time passed and the carpet was manky, so Michael threw it out,

so what would he do next?  He hit upon the brilliant idea of painting the

 

concrete floor.  It only took half an hour and then”hey presto" he had a

 

redecorated bathroom,  only he hadn't thought of one thing. What happens

 

when you paint a floor white? It shows all the dirt, and it shows up all

 

the spiders that are not spiders,  if you know what I mean.  So  Michael

 

improvised,  he was good at improvising, 20 years as a computer operator

 

and he'd leant to improvise,  if nothing else.  So he painted the  floor

 

blue,  that colour wouldn't show up spiders that weren't spiders. And he

 

was  right.  He had another problem now,  because  he'd  used  ordinary

 

emulsion,  when it got wet, it came off, so soon the soles of Michael's

 

slippers  went  blue,  and soon the blue was spattered with  white,  as

 

toothpaste and soap suds stained the blue floor. Michael persevered, he

 

painted the floor blue every couple of weeks or so,  blue paint was  more

 

expensive than white,  but the one tin enabled him paint it ten times or

 

so.Eventually the walls needed painting again,  so Michael thought  he'd

 

try blue on the walls,  only it was too dark,  he didn't like it,  and

 

more to the point he ran out of paint halfway through.  So he went up  to

 

Fads again for white,  though he was nearly tempted  into buying a  soft

 

coloured paint as it was half price, but after a bit of soul searching he

 

stuck with white, five litres for a fiver.

         Another  problem reared its head,  if you try  painting  over  a

 

strong colour, the colour underneath shows through. So on Boxing Day 98

Michael spent the day painting, or smearing as his mother used to call it

 

,  he spent the day smearing two coats of white over the blue. And yes it

 

did look dreadful.  New Years Eve came and Michael's bathroom was covered

 

in copies of the Telegraph,  it was a good read with great coverage, why

 

just one copy was enough to cover all Michael's floor, he'd have to write

 

to  the editor to thank him.  So Michael got drunk on New Year's Eve  and

 

ended  up dancing with his friend Dave,  Dave being a Helmult  Khol  look

 

alike.  Once home with a hangover,  Michael realised that in the morning

 

he'd have to give another coat or two to the bathroom.  Michael could see

 

the  light  at the end of the tunnel,  or rather the bottom of  the  five

 

litre tin of paint,  once he finished the tin, the job would be finished

 

whether  it was finished or not,  the job would be finished.  He'd  had

 

enough, and he had a massive headache due to the paint fumes. 

 

       “Finished,  at last,  thank God,” yelled Michael, yes he

 

had come to the bottom of the tin, so finished or not, it was finished.

So Michael went and watched Star Trek on the satellite.  The bathroom took

 

forever to dry as it was Winter and the atmosphere was cold and wet.  So

 

it  was  a  couple  of  days before  Michael  could  finish  the  bathroom

 

transformation.  He found some old curtains he had in his pantry, he had

 

originally  bought them for the kitchen,  but once he got them  home  and

 

tried  hanging them he was annoyed to discover they were too  short,  so

 

they  had  ended up in his pantry on a shelf next to his  iron.  To  his

 

delight the new curtains were just the right length for his bathroom, and

 

they were nice and bright too.  So what to dod next?  Michael pulled the

 

panel out from in front of the bath, as luck would have it he had a spare

 

plastic shower curtain ; so he wrapped the panel in a new shower curtain,

 

a  flowery pattern on it,  and it would match the shower curtain he  had

 

already up. Finally as he had to lay the lino, the lino he swopped a new

 

pair of shoes for. His brother had some spare lino, and Michael as usual

 

had  a  spare  pair of shoes in his shoe mountain at  the  bottom  of  his

 

wardrobe.  So he got the lino,  and his brother got the shoes as a  Xmas

 

present,  they  had both laughed as they struck the  deal  during  their

 

regular  weekly   telephone conversation.  Their dead mother  would  have

 

approved too,”look after each other" was her motto. There was one snag

 

though, Michael couldn't find his sissors, so how could he cut the lino?

So  he improvised with the bread knife,  a flash of the knife  here,  a

 

flash of the knife there, it was hard work, he was soon covered in sweat

 

but after 45 minutes he was finished.  So he just had to slip the freshly

 

covered  bath panel back in position.  So kicking it back in  position,

 

Michael  had finally transformed his bathroom.  Michael stepped  back  to

 

admire his handiwork, accidently knocking the bread knife down the toilet

 

but  he didn't hear the splash,  as the radio was blaring out a Nat  King

 

Cole  song”Let there be Love".  Michael looked at his  freshly  painted

 

bathroom,  walls and ceiling had been painted,  new bright curtains were

 

hanging  down,  and the lino was new and bright too,  he had even put  a

 

layer of plastic and newspapers underneath to act as insulation,  and  he

 

had a little mat too that he could step on when he got out the bath.  Yes

 

it  was an utter transformation,  the best it had looked in the 12  years

 

he'd  lived there.  All this activity had made him really hungry,  he'd

 

bought a loaf from the bakery,  an old fashioned big tasty loaf,  all he

 

had  to do was cut it into big slices,  now where had he left  the  bread

 

knife?

                               End 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

The Little Things (c) by Michael Casey

The Little Things ©

By

Michael Casey

Well I was thinking what shall I write next, or shall I say what will  I write next, I’ll let Esol students fight over will and shall. It has been a couple of days since I spoke to you last. So what have we been up to in the Casey house?

We have been tidying up the house, just small little things, a bit of paint here and a splash of paint there, mainly over my clothes. As I write this I remember a piece called “Michael’s Bathroom” I’ll dig that out and post it next to this. But paint really does make a different, “that’s a nice tidy job” my dad used to say. So what did I paint? I badly painted the wall under the bay window. It looks as white as American film stars bleached teeth.

I blame our next door neighbour, she had a new front door so our house looked shabby by comparison. MY daughter also nagged me. So as we had a bit of paint left over  I painted under  the window, as well as the front door step. It made a big difference, just a lick of paint and hey presto the house has a smile.

It started 2 weeks ago when we accosted the builder over the road, we needed gutters fixing after the 3 months of the coldest winter in 50 years. The Indian builder was great, he jumped at the extra bit of work and did a tidy job as my dad would say. Only at the back of the house the new gutter showed up the outlet pipes from the kitchen and bathroom.

So like greased lightning I dug out the paint from the corner of the kitchen on the floor by the washing machine and started to paint. Only there was a problem, I did not have a paint brush anywhere, not even in the old bread pin under the sink where we keep various rubbish. The bread bin was actually the one we had when I was a child so it must be 50 years old now. It had no bread in it nor paint brushes.

So what do you do, you improvise, I’ve been a concierge and a night shift worker in a computer room, so I know how to improvise. I just stole one of my daughter’s art painting brushes and used that instead. This idea was great because it meant I could reach further as I painted the new wooden board that the new gutter was attached to. Then I went on to paint the outlet pipes from the kitchen and bathroom.

So hey presto the back of the house looked good. Then the Little Englander as my Shanghai wife has become decided to attack the grass, all my snowmen have since melted away. So marching behind her favourite toy, the lawnmower, she gave the grass a short back and sides. It’s so good now we may even have a bowling match on the grass. In fact it reminds me of the patch of grass that’s in the grounds of the Irish Pub in Shanghai, perhaps that’s where my own Shanghai girl got her inspiration from.

We also have a gate on our entry, I paid for it 20 years ago, this gate looked dull and faded and had no personality, a friend made that same joke about me some time ago, I’m smiling as I think about it. So again I attacked the gate with left over paint. I had bought some brushes by then, 99p for 5 brushes from the Plastic Shop up the road. Painting is very soothing and I’m not talking about inhaling the fumes either. It’s the satisfaction of seeing something dull come back to life. Mick Jagger could not get any satisfaction because he did not know how to paint an entry gate.

So all in all we have painted front and back and got our village green pocket garden grass back to nice looking again. As for my clothes, that’s another matter. I was wearing old clothes, 11year old green trousers, the trousers I wore when I had my Crowne Plaza NEC training. I tell you this to prove that I’m the same size after 11years, though the wife does not believe me. I am a large size person after all, that is how I’m viewed by my Shanghai Little Englander wife. Though I have to admit she is great with a lawn mower, even if she always cuts up my wild Shamrock, but they always grow back.

As for my clothes, I didn’t really get too much paint on them, though the entry itself has been baptised in paint, but nobody sees it as the door is always locked. I just noticed I’ve reached 800 words, am I turning into Ronnie Corbett, a tangent of a tangent, perhaps I should write for him.

Little things do matter as Ronnie Corbett will testify, but why do they matter? My mum cried when we broke a pink wooden coat hanger, her own mother had given it to her when she left for England in 1944, that’s why she cried. A bit of paint is nothing in itself, but it can change our view of our own homes. The street where I live is looking upgraded just because of a bit of paint here and there.

What about ourselves? I had a debate with a friend over presentation, not just of words but of self. Something one person hates another can love, it may be something our mum gave us, or we may be so poor that’s why we wear things to destruction. I sent a video clip of me reading my stuff to somebody and as its Summer I’m in my favourite orange Polo. Now will the person be listening to my words or just hating my Polo, or loving both. I’d don’t really know the answer to that, yet.

No Hiding Place (c) by Michael Casey

No Hiding Place ©

By Michael Casey

The thing about email and facebook is that you cannot hide anywhere. You will be found and will get mail, just as in the film “you got mail.” North South East and West, email and facebook will get you. Sometimes it’s hard to find the contact details page on  a site so you have to waste time on Wikipedia  

to find the email, then you can send your opus.

At this very moment in a bathroom at Moscow airport Edward Snowden is  being swamped by my emails asking him to read my material on his radio station. It’s just a link he has on his Wikileaks app on his computer. It connects him to the bathroom in the London embassy of Ecuadar, where thestrange is holding up this past year.

So their computers are being hacked by the IDHAC, which stands for I don't have a clue spy agency. All they can get on their computers is my material

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Michael-Casey/e/B00571G0YC/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_1

The  thinking behind it is that after a week of just Michael Casey it will drive them insane and they'll both come out with their hands up. There is also a screen saver of me in my Orange Polo, the one with the Polo scene on it, I'm 

moon-walking and I'm singing "you're bad, you're bad."

My Handbag

My Handbag ©

By Michael Casey

As you can imagine a man as sophisticated as me really must have a handbag, doesn’t every man? I first say a male handbag in France, or was it Italy, the word manbag wasn’t invented then. I noticed that the bus drivers all seemed to have one. A kind of overgrown shower bag really.

Obviously from that moment on I just had to have one, this may have been 20years ago. Where would I put my loose change, and a comb, and a pen and a metro map.  It was hot and I was in Paris, I was young and fancy free. I had sat down and injected ink into my right  buttock. I jumped up and  stabbed myself in the chest with my comb, one of those dangerous ones with a separate handle. As I danced like a Red Indian at a pow-wow in the entrance to the metro station, I took out my handkerchief and dropped it to the floor. Tourists thought it was an act and threw coins into my handkerchief.

As I rubbed my buttock and my chest alternatively, ladies of the night approached and danced next to me, this resulted in more coins being thrown into my handkerchief. They went away laughing, I bent down to retrieve my handkerchief only to have my bum squeezed by a 90year old French woman wearing a red beret. I would have hoped she enjoyed the thrill but she squeezed the sore buttock. So I jumped into the air screaming. Applause from the audience.

Now I deserved a drink so I made for the nearest bar, I could afford a beer with my earnings. In the bar I looked around and saw men and their manbags. So I drunk my beer and approached a group of drivers to ask where they got their bags from. Tatti was the answer, which is a cheaper than cheap department store in Paris.

Leaving the bar I needed a Kebab, as does every man traveling alone in Paris. So I had my Kebab and went back to my hotel satisfied. Though I was mistaken.  The night was a Dark Night of the Soul, which is a Spiritual concept. However in my case it meant food poisoning. My hotel was in a bad area, by Gare du Nord, my friend or should I say former friend had convinced me it was a nice area and it was dirt cheap too. That half right, it was a dirt area.

The hotel room had a shower with the sink and toilet all jammed together. Imagine the Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe, but instead of entering the wardrobe and enter up in Nania. You squeezed into a wardrobe like space for the toilet and shower. Many times that  night I entered the confessional, for again it was that small. I wished I was dead. I thought I was dead and in the depths of Hades, only in my case I was trapped in a phone booth like shower and toilet, which considering what was happening to my body was very convenient.

In the morning the sun rose, the state of my soul I cannot imagine, but I must have begged God a billion times to end my torment. Perhaps I had seen Hell itself in my broom cupboard of a shower and toilet space. So showering again, and I did need it I got dressed and had went down stairs.

Downstairs in a postage sized room I had my breakfast of rolls and coffee. I had paid francs for it so I was going to have it if it killed me. The rolls were very nice, so I had three, even though my head pounded like the drums at an African wedding. Then with an Au Revoir I hit the street.

I really did nearly hit the street, cos I tripped on the curb. In the distance I saw a cross, no nothing to do with church and God, no it was the green cross the symbol for pharmacy in Europe. I went  inside and practiced my French. Avez vois des aspirin de bas pris I asked. Which is do you have some cheap aspirin please, why do certain brands of aspirin cost so much. I slapped the money down on the counter and I went away happy.

The Dark Night of the Soul, had not yet ended. I read the writing on the side of the box. Aspirin Tamponne it said, I though what, is this a new way to take aspirin. And how was I supposed to take them, I was a man after all. Inside the box was a tube. I opened the tube and inside that was a giant pill, as big as extra strong mints, about an inch across, no string attached. Relieved I shoved the mint in my mouth, only it fizzed, I looked like a rabid dog. You were supposed to take them with water. So I went in search of bottled water.

I made my way to Tatti in search of my manbag, only to discover why Tatti was called tatty. It really was TATTY, I was amazed just how, well tatty Tatti was. So I never bought a manbag after all. I did buy two full length men’s coats instead, wool blend, I still have the blue one in my wardrobe upstairs. Right next to my wife’s collection of handbags. But that is another story.