Albert Fittle dragged his arthritic body from under the duvet and made his way to the bathroom.
This epic journey happened at least three times a night. He had the idea of attaching a bicycle
Inner tube to his member and siphoning off into a bucket beside the bed, he changed his mind after realising the tube might get twisted during his unsettled sleep and end up with an explosion and a shower of his own urine. The idea of having a piss pot under the bed also got shelved because he was having problems with his memory, and realised it may overflow and soak the people in the flat below.
The doctor advised not drinking after 6pm but the bladder still insists on visiting the porcelain pot.
After his ablution Albert has that "Might as well stay up" thought and decides to make a cup of tea.
Trying to be quiet in the early hours of the morning is an impossible task, move something and it resounds at twice the normal decibel, even mumbling profanity seems to echo out into the street.
The arthritis is bad in both wrists and makes filling and holding the kettle very difficult.
Albert turns on the faucet, water sprays everywhere, he must remember to put a note above the sink saying, "Turn tap slowly" he is now soaked and wonders why he bothered getting out of bed. He reminds himself that wet mattresses are a nightmare to get dry and the smell of stale urine never dissipates no matter what one uses to clean the offending stain. The kettle begins to whistle alerting the entire neighbourhood that a night stalker is making a cup of tea. Albert threw caution to the wind and decided to make some toast. He would pay for it later with a bout of indigestion. He had stopped eating Albran the day he got to the bus stop and realised his bowels were about to open without giving him due notice. Thank goodness he was within shuffling distance of the Tesco supermarket bathroom.
Albert placed the tea and toast on his trolley and makes for the lounge. By the time he reached his favourite chair his repast has been drowned by the contents of the teapot. Albert is philosophical about the carnage and decides it was not worth the bout of indigestion anyway. The tea is lukewarm which is a bonus given the trouble he has had with his false teeth. The irritation is a bind and no amount of Bonjella will ease the swelling or the chaffing. Maybe soggy toast is the answer, might be better than that crap the home help deliver. He is certain they are slowly poisoning him. Last week, they gave him a container marked "Lasagne" On opening he discovered jam roll and custard. His pudding turned out to be beef curry. Both went into the trash and he resolved not to eat that crap again.
The gas fire was lit, Albert pondered on how he would pay the bill. Worry about it when it arrives.
Radio or television it was a conundrum. Which one would make the most noise? Radio I have to keep getting up to turn the bugger down. Television is easy I can control it from my chair. Television it is then and worry about the electricity bill when it arrives. There is a packet of candles under the sink.
The news was full of the woes of the world Albert had enough of his own, laughter was the answer.
Albert placed the video tape in the machine and sat back to watch his favourite comedian. He did not realise he had been so popular back in the 50s and 60s the world was his oyster until the demon drink had taken a hold over his soul. Top of the bill in Blackpool for two seasons what a show stopper.
Each poster that hung on his nicotine stained walls was a reminder of how it used to be. Tell a joke? I'm lucky if I can remember what bludy day of the week it is. Albert said he would have the last laugh and maybe he did. They found him sitting in his chair, television blaring out his one liner's and to add to the joke just below the little red light on the video machine it read. "Repeat Play".