The Fit Saga – Part 1: Arrival

It arrives two days after the order. Imagine that. Two days is all it takes. To travel from one side of the earth to the other. Two days. God the world is small. God the world is just so small, you know. Like a little village. Like a tiny little global village etc. Imagine that. And when it arrives, it doesn’t arrive at my door. It arrives at the newsagent at the end of the street. A new service. Foolproof. A drop point. New tech. How exciting. Jesus, this is exciting. I am very excited. Walking over there now. Immediately. Right now. Actually walking there. To the newsagent. To the drop point. Opening the door now. Now actually inside the shop. Doing absolutely everything within my control not to shout “In the motherfucking shop!” at the top of my voice. Goddamit this is good. My heart’s probably averaging about 182 bpm right now, practically bursting through my 80cm chest here. And I’ve got no trousers on. Only joking. Of course I’ve got trousers on. Everything is under control here. My look, you know. It’s dialled in. On point. Classic newsagent. Giving it a bit of the old ‘just browsing the chocolate bars mate’, you know. To look at me, you know, as a stranger. I mean, if you were a stranger, to look at me you might think that I was actually browsing the chocolate bars. That I could exist in this present state for an hour or two. If I absolutely had to, you know. And that’s what’s so exciting about this. That nobody knows.

Possibly how the package was delivered to the drop point

Back at the flat things are almost exactly as they were when I left to go to the drop point about five minutes ago. In fact, they are precisely the same. I clear a space for the parcel on the table in the front room. There is already enough space but the fact is, is that this parcel is going to sit right in the middle of the table and nothing is going to be near it. Also, the parcel can’t touch the table until the table is tidied. And there is a lot of stuff on top of the table. This is the game. But as I’m scrunching up old receipts and throwing a cycling cap onto the sofa, there is a part of me that wants to just push everything off the table top with one grand swoop of my arm. To make a real fucking macho statement here for absolutely no reason whatsoever. But my grandmother’s decanter. And the soil from the poinsettia will probably take hours or even weeks to sweep up. No no, better not. We’ll just clear most of the stuff off the top and then put the parcel down. Forget about the game you idiot. Someone’s going to get hurt.

Now, finally, the moment has come. With the parcel on the table, I take a last look out of the front window, draw the curtains and strip completely naked. Only joking. Of course I don’t do that. No, I walk to the kitchen and get the scissors and then carefully open the package. Careful not to cut what’s inside! And then suddenly it’s out. It’s out of the envelope. It’s here. It’s in front of me. Actually here. Oh my god I’m holding it. It’s in my hands. Oh my, it’s beautiful. Every bit as beautiful as the pictures. More so. Even more beautiful. What a jersey! What an unbelievable jersey. Silken. Pro fit. From Australia. Fuck me! It’s here. It’s arrived.


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