To be perfectly honest, new years last year was a drag. I, Afam, actually paid money to watch 2016 come in. I stood on the banks of the Thames (that London river) drunker than a man should ever be and watched the fireworks explode. Had I known that 2016 would be a rather rubbish year, I would have saved myself the money. At the start of the year I felt no optimism. It was just meh. Meh is what you say when a situation is so completely mediocre that it deserves no coherent thought.
This year already feels different. For reasons that I cannot explain, I feel like I just snorted unicorn shit or some other unbelievable substance. It’s so startling that I went up to Papa Afam to discuss it.
Enter, me, Afam and Papa Afam watching channels in a white tee and boxers. This version of Papa Afam isn’t my favourite one, but beggars can’t be choosers.
Afam: Dad, did you slip me a pill of walking on sunshine while I was asleep? I’m feeling a little more peculiar than usual.
Papa Afam: This is why I insist that you’re on drugs. Please work out how you’re going to move out of my house.
Afam: If I moved out you’d be bored.
Papa Afam: How so?
Afam: Pardon me if I overstep but you’re a troublesome man at heart. And don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing wrong with being both troubled and troublesome. If you were to live alone with my mother without me, you wouldn’t have as many opportunities to be troublesome.
Papa Afam: But I don’t know what you are talking about!
Afam: Who was it that was trying to stop me from drinking one the first of January? Every time you poured yourself a glass you’d stare at me intensely and yell, “GO EASY ON THE BOOZE AFAM MY SON!” Now everybody and their dog thinks I’m an alcoholic.
Papa Afam: Prevention’s always better than cure. You’ll thank me when you’re older.
Exit my Chairman and critic in chief, Papa Afam and this young Chairman, Afam. Stage left!
All of that is by the way. When I woke up this morning, I knew exactly what I needed. I was going to have breakfast. Breakfast is a thing I almost never do. I didn’t want eggs or toast or indomie. I wanted a smoothie. As far as I’m concerned, liquid meals are the height of good sense and efficiency.
I went to the maid, Blessing and croaked something like, “Pineapple. Orange. Carrot. Ginger. Oats. Smoothie.” She said something back but my just woken up 26 year old brain didn’t catch it.
When I returned to the kitchen, I saw what she’d done. It was a creation that made my eyes bug out of my head in astonishment. It was orange, and very thick, and, there was a pack of weetabix on the side. I smiled gently and indulgently and said, “Blessing what is this supposed to be?”
She glanced at me dismissively and said, “Is this not what you asked for? It looks absolutely disgusting but I did the best I could to fulfil your wish.”
I was about to start complaining about the great difference between Weetabix and oats when she said, “if you stress me this morning, I will not tidy up your room, which is just as disgusting as this thing.”
I shut up immediately. My room is the most honest representation of my mind, scattered, confused, and desperately untidy. I cannot organise it myself just like I need a life coach like yesterday!
The smoothie itself wasn’t half bad. The ginger helped with any nausea I might have felt as it moved down my throat like a toxic vitamin and fibre rich sludge, and the Weetabix added a fullness that I quite like.
The spirit of this blog post should be clear but if it isn’t I’ll give you a sentence or two. I know everyone says that new year resolutions are useless because after February you forget about them and continue as you were the year before, but doesn’t every little help? I mean if I work out for two months of the year, have I not somehow increased my life expectancy? Really, think about it.
So, for as long as I can stomach it, I'll be drinking some fruity incredibly dodgy concoction every morning and I feel rather good about it.
Happy Days,
Afam
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