The other day, my arse spoke to me, and imparted wisdom of great proportions. I didn’t know I’d been sitting on an oracle, but then there are lots of things I don’t know, such as pretty much everything that isn’t Googleable (seeing as nobody actually needs to remember anything about anything anymore).
Now, there is wisdom to be had almost everywhere, if only we look for it. For instance, last week, four pigeons on a 12-foot plinth at Heuston train station told me that no matter how high you fly, there will always be some bolshie bugger you have to fight just in order to stand still. This is the first time I’ve seen it coming from my arse, but it’s hardly surprising. If you think I’m a no-nonsense sort, you should see my arse.
(By the way, if you saw the headline for this post and thought “Well holy Blog, that’s terrible click-bait right there, so it is”, you’d be right. But my arse has things to say, nonetheless.)
Picture the scene. It’s late, and I haven’t moved in an hour.
My Arse: Pssst. Tara. Hey. Get up a second.
Me: Not now, My Arse. I have thoughts to think and days to ruin with black imaginings of unhelpful doomsday scenarios.
My Arse: I know you’re not feeling particularly funny. But I’ve been thinking too. You’ve been sitting on me for a long time.
Me: I haven’t much choice there. But yes, I can’t deny it.
My Arse: I can’t do much about it either. But look, all this writing you’re doing. Is it coming to anything?
Me: I don’t know, My Arse. The whole thing is a slow process. It can take 6 months just to query a novel, you know. And that’s not counting the 18 hours I waste per day, doing an actual job which pays me actual money, and arsing around online.
My Arse: Mind your language.
Me: Sorry.Embed from Getty Images
My Arse: It’s just, you’re getting heavier, you know, and your posture is going on ninety.
Me: Right. Thanks. A little bit of encouragement goes a long way.
My Arse: I was thinking you sort of got bogged down a bit.
Me: Are you looking for a cushion, or something?
My Arse: You’re a lot heftier when you’re thinking more than you’re writing.
Me: What’s your point?
My Arse: Oh, for the love of… Why did I get all the brains? Have you got writer’s block?
Me: I knew it. I’ll get some Senokot.
My Arse: Shut up. Look, I know you have a lot of stuff going round your head, these days. But you’re making it all ten tons more cumbersome by sitting on me, thinking about it.
Me: Ok, Doctor. And what is it that you’re prescribing, exactly?
My Arse: That’s easy. Take thirty minutes of good sweaty exercise, followed by two targeted queries, and a blog post with a shallow headline. And then two glasses of wine. And a pint. Of Pernod.
Me: I’ll skip the Pernod, if you don’t mind. But the rest sounds okay.
My Arse: You’ll thank me later.
Me: I suppose I will. But if you think you’re getting into smaller sized jeans any time soon, you can think again. All that activity will have to be balanced by cake.
My Arse: [I would say it sighed here, but we all know what that means, and this is a public forum.]
So there you have it. All the gurus – the medical ones, the mindful ones, even the mindless ones – tell you to listen to your body. I’m off to the loo. See you later.
[P.S. The first person to make a joke about me talking through my arse, gets barred.]