The Smell of Diesel

I can tell more people are out and about again by the smell of diesel as I queue for the supermarket. Its surprisingly not from the carpark though – looking around me, that’s at about the same capacity and usage as it has tended to be over the last few weeks.

The carpark is, however, right next to the M3 motorway, and is closely boundaried by Staines Road West, which broadly runs between here, Staines, the Great West Road and the M25. In other words, a major multilane road. The traffic in both of those is noticeably heavier than it has been in months, and with it has returned the noise and fumes of diesel and petrol.

I’ve got used to not tasting the air when I head out, and now I’m feeling nauseous just standing still. I’m now wearing a face mask not as a Covid-19 precaution, but as an anti-pollution measure.

If I wasn’t already a miserable sod, this would be enough to make me one. Its amazing what we can get used to.

I refuse to have a cold

I don’t have the time right now, I refuse to be ill. That should do it, right? I mean that’s what people keep telling us for mental health issues, so overpowering this persistent sinus pain and attempt at blocked nose can be sent packing with coffee and spite? Yes?

If a positive attitude was all it took to battle my own brain (do you see the conflict there?) Then surely stubbornness will work with merely physical complaints, it only makes sense.

Okay, I know I’m preaching to the choir here. Everyone I ever met has battled at some point so this is hardly esotoric territory or a sudden surprise and revelation. I’m just letting off some steam.

I’ve got three more days of work before I start my holiday. It’s all feeling a bit of a slog at the moment.

Soggy Morning

I’m off to a masquerade thing this weekend, and so need to sort out a suitable mask for Lady S. Fortunately there’s a place near me that stocks all sorts of things so I’ve dragged myself out of bed in my day off to pop down to Kingston.

It’s a bit soggy. It’s raining so much the pigeons are hiding under the old barbecue on my balcony. From the sound of the cooing they’re busy making new pigeons. I’m half expecting to see them wearing galoshes the next time they’re perched on the railings.

Being Pride month, and an obstinate bugger, I’ve thrown on my Queer Umbrella t-shirt. It’s buried under my hoodie and thick coat, but it’s there. The last time I wore it was while at Con when popping out for supplies while Lady M was laid up with a migraine and heatstroke.

On that occasion I had a man yell “Queer!” in my face, which I suppose proved he could actually read. I looked at him. Every cosplayer on the street looked at him. He looked up in the silence and realised I was a head and a half taller than him and twice as wide. He dipped his head and went away.

I do not approve of this rain

I’m lucky. I’m a white male who easily fits into the bear stereotype in appearance. I’ve woken this morning to read two stories of homophobic assaults just in the first ten minutes of being awake, and as many incidences of people shouting about straight pride. I’m not dignifying that with capitals.

Pride is protest and visibility in the face of aggression. It’s political, it always has been, it started as a riot in the face of police brutality.

I’m queer. I’m bisexual, polyamorous, sex-positive, kinked and not going anywhere. Sorry, not sorry.

Just, who ordered all this rain?