John Walker's Electronic House

by on Nov.09, 2004, under The Rest

There are two things I want to write about – one is my thoughts on the wisdom of acting out of an “I don’t know”, and the other is about kicking pants.

No competition on a morning where my head is muddled and my thoughts are distracted.

This is something that when it works, it pains me so much that the glory isn’t shared by another. But at the very same time, it’s such a good thing that no one can ever see it. In fact, common sense would dictate that I just keep it to myself. It would. Were I to ever employ such a thing.

Each evening, or more commonly, early morning, as I get ready for bed, there is a special, secret challenge that awaits my night-time preparations. Before climbing into my improvised pyjamas, it is of course necessary to remove my underwear. Bear with me. Socks first, now pulled so that they are not inside out before throwing them in the washing basket. I never used to do that when my mum did my washing. I’m sorry mum.

(Heh – like my mum would lower herself to using a computer out of choice, let alone read my blog)

And then pants. Stay with it. Try not to create mental images. Once around my right foot, the game begins. The aim is: to kick them up in the air in such a way that they can be caught impressively.

Now, this started off reasonably simply. I would kick them up and catch them, and be pleased with this. But of course, this quickly became too easy. And then, as so often is the case with serious scientific research such as this, serendipity played her part. In order to kick them up in a way that can be caught, some spin has to be applied. Ideally, they should go forwards before spinning up and backwards. It was during one over-eager kick that the pants flew up and over my head, where, on instinct (I think being able to juggle is what causes this instinct, rather than anything more inherent in the animalistic mind of a human) I reached out behind me and caught them. It was spectacular. Crowds should have cheered. And then stopped cheering, because they’d notice that a fat, hairy man was standing naked in his bedroom, holding his pants behind his back, and they were watching, the sick-minded perverts.

So this has become the game. To kick them up, spinning, over my head, and caught with a nonchalent hand behind the back, then tossed into the washing basket. The rule is: you only get one go. No putting the pants back on the foot and trying again, oh no matey. You have to wait until the next night to try again. And the glory, the sheer life-affirming joy, of a neat kick and catch, makes going to bed worthwhile.

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