Hallo, ik ben Arthur

28-02-2014 – Friday

 Hallo, ik ben Arthur. Apparently this means ‘Hello, I’m Arthur.’ I do hope so, otherwise I am making a complete fool of myself. My new Dutch friend taught me this yesterday and I believe her. She is trying to teach me some Dutch words; it’s a weird language. I have no clue as to how to say the words, but I know how to write them.
I don’t know if all Dutch people are like her, but she is seriously funny and a great person to talk to. I haven’t formally introduced you to her, so let’s do that … now. Her name is Belle, she is 15 years old and she lives in Rotterdam. Everybody could use a ‘Belle’ in their live. She is understanding, funny, easy going and very relaxed. I hope Evelyn is not secretly reading this for she might get jealous. (Dear Evelyn, if you’re reading this, there is no need to get jealous. Belle and I are just friends.)
Talking about Belle and Evelyn, let me give you the 411 in the 202. Belle gave me some tips and hints on how to tell when a girl is into you. Since then I have been trying my best to see any of those signs. Every time I noticed she was looking at me I counted how long she would look. Most of the times it was between three to five seconds. Which, to me, seemed rather average. On the whole she spent more time staring at the teachers, so where does that put me?
I’ve been wanting to talk to Evelyn for days, but I can’t seem to come up with a good reason to say anything. Actually, I hardly ever see any reason for talking to somebody. I don’t have to ask how their day is going, as I am there almost every minute of it; I know how their day is going, because I’m having the same one. It’s as useless as talking about the weather. You hear people saying things to each other like,’ Nice weather we’re having, ey!?’ or ‘Terrible weather, ain’t it?’ And the other person is likely to agree and say something like,’ Yeah, lovely, just lovely.’ Or something  like,’Yeah, awful, just awful.’ And they call that a conversation.
Then, when they come home, somebody will ask,
’ How was your day?’
And they’ll go,’ Oh, great, I ran into so and so.’
‘Ohw, did he say anything?’
‘No, not really.’
And that’s another so-called ‘conversation’. I call it a waste of time, words and oxygen! If I want to know about the (nasty word) weather, I will look out my window or walk the dog. If I want to know about tomorrow’s weather, I’ll watch the weather forecast on ol’ Aunty Beeb. Please, don’t bore me with tedious talks about the weather we’re having. So you see, I need more than just the weather or how she’s doing. That’s just not working. I’ll talk to Belle this weekend (hopefully) maybe she’s got some good advice.
Other unrelated news. Today Mr Owen padded me on the back for no reason. At least I had no idea why he did it. Then he said that he thought it was right what I had done. Still, it didn’t ring a bell. Then he said,’ Yesterday, in the hall, with Tyrone.’ I asked him who Tyrone was, then he laughed (don’t ask me why) and he explained that Tyrone was the kid who fell on the floor because I forgot to pull in my leg. I thought his name was Tyson. Maybe I got confused with Dyson – you know, the hoovers. I dunno.
Mr Bent is recovering just fine. He’s alive and kicking. His results came in and everything’s just fine. I believe he’ll have to go to St Bart’s every now and again for some check-ups and that’s it. I’ll be seeing him tonight and he’ll probably fill me in on all the details, or not. It’s not that I understand any of the difficult words in those reports, but I just love to hear him talk. I’m off to walk Cheddar now and to check up on the weather. Have a nice evening and see me tomorrow.  

Just Deserts

27-02-2014 Thursday

Although I have come to terms with the fact that I am short and fat and averagely pretty, some people out there clearly haven’t. Today one of them called me ‘fatso’. I guess I was blocking his way when he wanted to pass. It was just that Franz and Ron and I were leisurely (I just wanted to use this word so badly) walking through the corridor on our way out and this kid came running towards us – he was being chased by some other kid because he had stolen something off of him – and he yelled at me,’ Get out of the way, fatso!’
As I was not really all too happy with him calling me ‘fatso’ I only got out of his way partly. That is, my head moved, my body moved, my arms and hands moved, but one of my legs (and the foot that goes with it) didn’t. It got this guy flying through the air like a rocket. Which, I think, served him right for calling me fatso, no matter how right he was about it, he had no right to call me that. I was given a name and if you don’t know it or don’t want to use it, fine, but don’t start throwing insults at me.
Besides us there was nobody else around to see it, so I don’t think we’re going to get into trouble over this. There’s more to come. The boy who tripped, I believe his name is Tyson or something or nothing, fell on the ground headfirst. He was a bit angry and it looked like he really wanted to hit me so bad. Then, as he stood up, he noticed I was twice his size and he just stood there with his fist in the air making a complete fool out of himself. With his hand in the air and his focus on us, he didn’t really notice that the boy whom had his I dunno stolen by this Tyson character showed up, punched Tyson in the face, got his wallet back, thanked us and just walked off. Now that was priceless.
We’re not planning on reporting anybody here. I think this Tyson guy got his just deserts falling on the ground headfirst and then getting a knuckle sandwich. The other ‘dude’ got his wallet back and he got his revenge. I stood up for myself and got to see the culprit run off like a dog with its tail between its legs. So, basically, this problem solved itself. I do wonder whether Tyson’s got a black or anything, but I guess we’ll have to wait till tomorrow to find out.
When I got back home I did have a good look in the mirror and weighed myself. I guess I should lose some weight. It’s just that I love food so much and especially the bad foods: fish ‘n’ chips, sweets, biscuits, and their American equivalents (candy and cookies). It might be wise to start by eating less of that and more of the good stuff. Maybe I should look into working out or something. Just as long as I don’t have to join any club, because I don’t want to be embarrassed in front of strangers. Besides, I don’t want Mum to know and she would probably come up with some lame sports club that she wants me to join.
I’m keeping it short today, as I am working on my book. Have I said this before? I dunno, well, it wouldn’t hurt to say it again. I’ve been keeping this blog since the beginning of this year and, as you may understand, it is almost impossible to post everything about my life here. These blogs are just fragments, short summaries about what happened to me on a certain day or something. Somewhere along the road I decided it would be nice to fill in the blanks and turn it into a book. That’s what I am doing next to school, homework and keeping up with my facebook and twitter friends.
The working title of the book is ‘the missing pages’, which I thought would be a fitting title as it has got all the information in it that I’m not giving my readers here on WordPress. It literally contains the pages that are missing here. I hope to have it finished before the end of the school year. I have no idea about how to go about publishing it, but I guess I will figure it out when the time is there.
Oh my, I said I was going to keep it short. I have to go see Mr Bent now anyways. He’s doing okay, but I keep telling Mum that he’s still in a terrible state and really needs my care and help. That way she won’t stop me from going over there. So,  I’ll stop … See me tomorrow … here.

When The Lady Smiles

26-02-2014 Wednesday

Why do these things always have to be so difficult? Love things, I mean. Does it always have to be so subtle? I am just not good with reading people’s faces and body gestures. That’s what I realised today when talking on Facebook, ohw, I completely forgot. Before I continue my story on love and Evelyn (inseparable these words are), I will have to tell you about a new Dutch friend I made on Facebook and, please, remind me that I have to write a letter to Grandma to thank her for the Facebook idea. Grandma is completely loopy and a total genius at the same time. And when I am rich and famous I will have to send a bouquet of flowers to my new Dutch friend. One bouquet each week, I think she deserves that.
This girl is great. She makes me laugh and she makes me think about myself. Today I asked her how a boy could tell whether a girl likes him or not. So she starts saying things about looking at the boy a bit longer than is normal, and smiling at him and things like that. I kind of freaked out there, because I have absolutely no idea about body language and how much time does one normally look at a person? Five seconds, ten seconds? Is a minute longer than normal? Besides the looking at people, what about smiles!?
A smile can mean so many things and there is absolutely no logic in it. When does a smile mean ‘I am just smiling because I want to come across as friendly’ and when does it mean ‘Please, ask me to go out with you, because you’re cute’? And when does it mean ‘I farted and I’m trying not let anybody know it was me’? I can’t tell the difference! I just can’t. How the (bleep) do people do that?
And then there’s the other thing she said that really made my armpits wet with sweat,’ Girls want boys to ask them out.’ How cruel is that to guys like me!? How will I know whether a girl would want me to ask her to go out with me? What if she says ‘no’? I don’t think I could take a rejection like that. The entire school will find out and you’ll be the laughing stock of the year. Bullies have a nose for these kinds of things. They don’t know who you are, but they will find you and they will taunt you. Trust me, I’ve seen it happen.
Are there books that I could read on body language and facial expressions? I would love to find out which smile means what. Do people practise using those smiles? I don’t remember me ever letting one go and then put on a smile as some sort of decoy. I think I’d sooner say something like,’ Is that popcorn I smell?’ What if your facial muscles are underdeveloped or just not present and you can’t really smile or wink or anything like that? Did God really think this through? Or was this the work of Satan?
All this thinking about Evelyn, and whether she likes me as much as I like her, and is she thinking about me, etc. etc. Hundreds of questions and thoughts are raging through my head like a hurricane. It is pure torture that I do it unto myself. Nobody is making me think the things I am thinking and Evelyn can’t help it, she’s just being herself. It’s my brains. Is there a word for this? How can brains be so stupid to cause itself so much mental agony? It’s like hitting yourself over the head with a hammer repeatedly while saying,’ Stop doing that, it hurts!’ yet you continue to do it. Brains are weird things and I wish I could keep them under control a little bit more than now. I think I should go to sleep; it’s way past my bedtime. I will give all this some more thoughts in the morrow. Good night. See me tomorrow.

Pubic Hair/Public Hair

25-02-2014 Tuesday

What a day for a daydream. I think Evelyn is ‘in the know’. I think I know she is in the know and I know I think she is in the know. I’ve been so jittery all day about this that it took me hours before I could finally think straight and write down something about what had happened today. By chance Evelyn overheard a conversation between Franz – the German exchange student, but not really – and she … wait. Let me start at the beginning otherwise you won’t understand half of it because it’s going to come out all screwy, because I’m in such state. I think you could call it cloud 9. By the way this story might not be suitable for kids of all ages, best be warned. Here goes.
After maths Franz was copying my English work, because, you know, he (bad words) at English. We were sitting there and Franz was trying the best he could to keep a conversation going with me. I think to most outsiders it would have sounded like we were talking two different kinds of gibberish. Probably the only reason we were able to understand each other was that we both had a Babelfish stuck in our ears. If you don’t know what a Babelfish is, read the Hitchhiker’s Guide To The Galaxy. Then you’ll also know the importance of knowing where your towel is.
Franz, as I told you before, talks to anything that moves. I, on the other hand, keep my mouth shut to all that moves. Franz’s English is horrible, incomprehensible, and illegible and should be forbidden by law, whereas my English is above average for my age (I think I have my parents to thank for that). As you can see, we are an unlikely match. I don’t think we consider ourselves to be friends. We tolerate each other’s presence. Besides, we have got some sort of an understanding; he copies my homework and I copy his. That’s about it.
Franz was telling me about his first signs of pubic and facial hair (I know, I wasn’t too happy about the topic either). From what I could understand it made him feel like a real man and that his father was so proud of his son that he was going to buy him a razor (for his face, not for his … you know). If his father was really that proud, he’d have let Franz grow a beard and make him look like a real man, too.
Franz started asking me about my hair and I felt really uncomfortable. I don’t think one should talk about ones presence or absence of pubic hair in public. Otherwise they would have called it public hair. I’m not even sure whether one should talk about these matters at all. I tried changing the topic, but each time I did that Franz would rub his chin and go like,’ Do you feel zat (his way of pronouncing ‘that’)? Zat iz vat manliness feelz like.’ And we’d be back on topic again. After the fourth time he pulled that trick on me, I began rubbing my own chin and saying – as proud as I could,’ Feel that? That’s what eternal youth feels like!’
As you can see, sometimes it is not easy even to just tolerate each other, but it’s all for the greater good. One day we won’t be needing each other anymore and we’ll both go our own separate ways. We’ll part without any sentiment. Till that day cometh, I will have to make the best out of a bad situation.
What does all of this have to do with Evelyn and her knowing about the poem? Well, here it comes. Apparently (I love that word) she had overheard a little bit of the conversation between Franz and myself – sounds like déjà vu – she was waiting outside of school and I passed her she walked up with me for a little bit. Here’s more or less what was said on our short walk.

‘Listen, Arthur, I heard you talking to Franz …’
This is where I kind of turned red and stumbled,
‘Well, you see, eeuh, I can explain, you know…’
‘Don’t. I just … well, I just wanted to say that you don’t have to look like a man to be one. If you know what I mean.’
Then she gave me that shy look from under her hair and I think I turned tomato on her. We exchanged a very meaningful look and then she turned round and walked the other way. That’s when I shouted,
’ Evelyn!’
She turned round, still walking, and all I could say was,
’ Thanks.’
She threw her backpack on her back, turned round again and headed home.
I think this is love. It must be love.
I should thank Franz.
See me tomorrow.

The Coffin Lift

 

24-02-2014 Monday

Aha, today is the twenty-fourth … Happy Monday everybloody. I got caught up last night helping Mr Bent with his household chores. Actually, he’s doing pretty fine. I just like to hang out with him. It beats staying home and listening to Mum and Dad argue or bicker or fight. Mr Bent has so many a story to tell. He should be writing books instead of reading them. I bet he’d have been a millionaire if had started writing everything down ten years ago. All those stories, but I haven’t even finished the one I started yesterday, so let’s do that first.

‘What would a hospital be without a lift? St Bart’s has many of them, but there is one lift in particular that makes St Bart’s a little bit more famous. It is called the ‘Coffin Lift’. Not that it is shaped like a coffin, oh no. It looks like any other lift, it just hidden away somewhere in the deep depths of St Bart’s. Nobody has been buried in it either. Not yet, that is. Someone has been killed in it, though. It is said that a nurse was killed in the lift by a patient who had gone round the bend. The result is a lift with a mind of its own. It likes to tease. It likes to play. It likes to taunt people just a tad.
, As I said, it looks just like any other ordinary lift, but when passengers get into the lift and push the button of the floor they would like to go to, the lift won’t take them there. The lift decides, the lift is in control and the lift would like to go someplace else: downstairs. Irrespective of which floor you choose to go, the lights will go out and it will take you all the way down to the basement … in the dark. There you can push any button you’d like, but the lift won’t move an inch. The only thing left to do is to try and pull open the gate, get out, and walk back up.
, Is that not scary enough for you? Wait till you get back on the ground floor. As you get to the ground floor you will notice that the Coffin Lift will be waiting there for you, arms open wide. Most people will then choose to walk up, afraid of ending up in the basement again. Slowly but steady they will walk up the stairs. With every step they take the feeling that they’re being followed increases. The staircase twists around the shaft and they’ll notice that with every step they take, the lift will take it with them. Up or down, it won’t matter, the lift will follow.’
Stories like this make me never want to set foot in a lift again. There are some horror films about lifts, but I don’t think I am going to watch any of them. Lifts already freak me out when they’re too small, or when they make too much noise, or when they are too shaky. Mr Bent has no problems with lifts. I bet he’d like to try the Coffin Lift himself. He’s that kind of guy. I am the kind of the guy that has to some homework. I will have to leave you. See me tomorrow. 

Rahere (or Rathere?)

23-02-2014 Sunday

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Mr Bent came back from hospital yesterday and I went over to take care of him a little. He was very pleased I had put some of his books back and created some room for him to walk, sit, and sleep. He wasn’t in a wheelchair or anything, so the path that I had made was wide enough. It was as if the books were saying,’ Hello, and welcome back,’ to him they way I arranged them.

Although I am not as good as Mr Bent with these things, I made him some tea with biscuits and sandwiches (okay, I didn’t make the biscuits myself). The tea tastes different when he makes it. There must be some kind of magic he uses. As you know, there is absolutely no magic in me. Which reminds me, I have got some stuff on sale. I should really put it up on eBay. If you happen to know anybody who is interested in a wand or a broom or anything, let me know. I can’t promise they will work, but who knows. They might look cooler on someone else. I didn’t really have ‘swag’ with a broom under my butt. Who needs ‘swag’ anyways!? In 20 years from now, kids will find the word old-fashioned and stupid. Mr Bent doesn’t even know what ‘swag’ is.
The other day, as we were leaving the hospital Mr Bent whispered something about ghosts in St Bart’s. Yesterday he told me about one of them. You might want to crawl up to your teddy bear or maybe pull your blanket a bit higher up, because it freaked me out. It might also be nice to read it while drinking a hot cup of chocolate with cream on it. I love hot chocolate with cream in winter. Mr Bent calls this story ‘The Coffin Lift’. Remember to read this in one of those deep, dark voices,
‘Before I start telling anything about the haunted lift in St Bart’s, let me start by saying something about the building itself, for it is a very special building. King Henry I – early 12th century – had a jester whose name was Rahere. After the king’s only son had drowned at sea near Calais, Rahere became a monk and went to Rome. Of course, in those days, jabs were not common practise and thus Rahere became seriously ill. He was struck by malaria and it was weakening him more and more. When he felt his end was nigh he vowed that, should he miraculously recover, he’d erect a hospital for the poor.
,On his way back to England, he had a vision or a dream, if you will, in which St Bartholomew told him to not only erect a hospital, but also a church in London. Rahere did so. He built a church and a hospital and when he died somewhere 1145, he was buried in his own church. There’s a good ghost story about that church, too, but we’re not going to go into that now. Let’s save that for later, shall we?’
I will have to leave you with this. As school starts tomorrow, I have homework to do and a dog to walk. The latter has nothing to do with school whatsoever. This is where we say goodbye for now. If I have time to spare tonight, I will post the rest of the story. Otherwise … see me tomorrow. 

PS. I took the picture of the hospital. I took the camera with me when we went to see Mr Bent.

Greetings From Rotterdam

22-02-2014 Saturday

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Let’s start off with the good news. Mr Bent is coming home tonight. He’s feeling quite all right. Mum and I went to see him yesterday and he was in a rather cheerful mood. He said they were treating him really well at St. Bart’s and he really loved how the nurses were taking care of him. I don’t know if you still know this, but Mr Bent has got this problem with his muscles and he keeps saying how he is beyond repair. He can’t raise his arms over his head so he actually needs somebody help to wash himself (don’t ask me how he does this at home). The nurses washed his hair and they shaved him and it made him look ten years younger. Maybe we should find somebody for him to do that once or twice a week.
Mum says I can go over to his place tonight and help him out a little. Just before we left the hospital yesterday Mr Bent whispered something to me about ghosts in St Bart’s and that he wanted to tell me about it. I hope he’s going to tell me tonight while I help him out. St Bart’s is a very old building and I guess things could get kind of creepy in there.
Today I talked to a girl from the Netherlands. She is one of my Dutch friend’s pupils. Dutch kids are really good at English. She’s even been to London once and she reads English books. I believe she is from Rotterdam, but I am not sure about this. I wanted to know so many things but I couldn’t come up with the questions. In any case it was a good way to practise my social skills. Though talking on the Internet is not really the same as talking in real life. People are scarier in real life.
When we went to Rotterdam and we met my Dutch friend, Mum did most of the talking. I smiled a lot and said a lot of ‘yes, uhu, right.’ Mum thought my Dutch friend was cute, though he was way too young for her. Still, I mustn’t tell Dad about it. We’re still not on speaking terms anyways. He hasn’t asked about Mr Bent’s health at all and I don’t think he really cares about it.
I put up some of the pictures on Facebook. You know, the pictures I took of Rotterdam. Central Station is missing in the pictures and I don’t know where it has gone. I thought I had taken two or three shots of it. There are a couple of other pictures missing, too. But there are some cool photos of this creepy dilapidated swimming pool. It looks like it came straight from a horror film. It was overgrown with plants and all. My friend said part of the pool is now used as a café, but he wasn’t sure, because even that café seems to be closed all the time.
The bad news is, school starts again this Monday and I am not really looking forward to it. I haven’t heard or seen Evelyn for over a week and I wonder if she has figured out that it was me who sent her that Valentine’s Day card. Maybe she still hasn’t. What if she has? What do I say to her? What will she say to me? Oh, bugger. I am really not good at these things. Wish they taught us these things in school as well. We’re about to have some fish ‘n’ chips and then I’m off to Mr Bent. Have a good evening and see me tomorrow. 

St Bart’s

21-02-2014 Friday

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Right, I fixed the Internet. I was fed up with Dad and his moods and we’re still not talking to each other. Mum showed me all the cables and things and there was one cable not plugged in. It was dead easy, but it would have taken Dad weeks to fix it. A child could have done it. A child did it. Well, a teenager, but still. Plugged in the cable et voila (That’s French, don’t ask me what it means, because I don’t udnerstand a word of the language).

It’s nearly weekend and I have to post all the stories I have written since Tuesday. I don’t think I am going to post them all at once. It might just take me a day or two. Besides posting my life story, I still have to lead my life and at the moment I am worrying a lot about Mr Bent’s health. He didn’t look too good at all yesterday and those doctors need to learn English. I couldn’t make heads or tails out of what the doc was saying and I asked Mum when we got home, she couldn’t tell me anything either. Maybe we can ask Mr Bent tonight. He might just feel better and talkative and he might understand the difficult words, seeing that he has read all those difficult books.
Talking about Mr Bent. I am going over to his place in about an hour to clean up a bit more and to make sure he can use his bed without having to lie down on a load of books. How does and how can this man live like this? It is amazing. It’s not that the place is dirty or anything, it’s just packed with books, bric-a-bracs, knickknacks, oddities, and peculiarities. This man saves anything to everything. It does show that he’s seen places and probably more than once. He’s not only travelled across England, this man has been from France to China and back again. Everywhere he went he took souvenirs back with him. I bet he’s got more tales to tell than just the ghost stories he tells me.
How come a man who has travelled the world can be such a hermit? Doesn’t he have any relatives or anything? Hardly anyone ever visits him, if anyone ever visits him at all. I should find out more about him. Mr Bent is quite an intriguing person. There’s an air of mystery about him. We might hear some more of him tonight when we visit him at Barts (that’s St. Bartholomew’s hospital). Barts has an official name as well, but that sounds way too posh for me. He’s lucky he’s in there, and we’re lucky the hospital is still there. They nearly closed it in the early 90s.
That’s it for now. I’ve got stuff to do before I am off. There’s schoolwork and … schoolwork … and schoolwork. I guess I could do some schoolwork. Ah, and I have to put up some of my stories on WordPress, and see if I can find some new friends on Facebook and Twitter. I think I am about to procrastinate a little. See me tomorrow (or on Facebook).

On Hospitals and Whispering Skills

20-02-2014 Thursday

It is going to take another two weeks, at least, to put all of Mr Bent’s books back onto the shelves. I managed to free the couch and rid the chairs and the dinner table of books. I cleared a path by piling some books and made it look a little like a racetrack. Hopefully he won’t come back in a wheelchair, he won’t be able to get up the stairs and my path might not be wide enough.
Mum and I went to see Mr Bent last night. Dad said he was tired, too tired to go. I give him an evil look. We’re still not on speaking terms, and from the looks of it, it’s going to take some time before we will be. Mum had bought a lovely bouquet of flowers and a get-well card with frogs on it. I brought Mr Bent two of his books. I think he really appreciated it. One of them had a picture of a heart on it and a very intelligent looking title with difficult latin words. The other one was called Sleepy Hollow. He gave a smile when I handed them to him. Mum put the flowers in a vase by his bed and hung up the card. It looked a bit sad; just the one card over his bed. It kind of fitted Mr Bent’s current state of being.
Poor Mr Bent looked really pale and didn’t really say a lot. The doctor told us that he had had a heart attack. He seemed all right (for) now, but he was weak and, just in case, they took some bloodsamples to check for other things. The doctor used all these difficult medical terms and it was kind of hard for me to follow. From the looks on Mum’s face I could tell she had no idea what he was going on about either, she just kept nodding and saying,’uhu, mmm, yes.’ She was not able to fool me, but she was able to fool a person who had finished university and has been working with people for years and years. Maybe he just didn’t care whether she understood or not.
I don’t know if you have ever noticed or even been to a hospital (this was my first time, too), but there is something in hospitals that make you want to whisper. All visitors do it for some reason. The problem with a lot of these visitors is that they whisper louder than they talk – Mum is one of those. I could literally write down every word the people next to us were saying even though they were ‘whispering’. I am not going to do it, though; it doesn’t seem appropriate.
Mum asked Mr Bent a lot of questions about his health and about who was going to take care of him when he got home. Mum was more or less trying to hint that I was coming over every day after school to help out a bit. I wouldn’t mind doing that. I think I’d enjoy it; spending more time with Mr Bent. As I said before, he is more or less the father I have never had and I am on speaking terms with him (this is where I wanted to put in a smiley face).
When we left I gave him a big hug, which I normally don’t do, because I am not the hugging type. I have got this enormous comfort zone around me. Mr Bent, who is also not the hugging type, really needed one and I think I needed it too this time. If he’s not home tomorrow, we’ll visit him again. Mum also offered to give him a ride home when he’s released from hospital. Mr Bent was very pleased with our visit and all our help. Maybe this cloud has a silver lining; I think Mr Bent found out that he does need other people. It might just help him with his social skills.

As Internet is still down I will not be able to post this blog just yet. If Dad hasn’t fixed the (nasty word) thing tomorrow, I will definitely have a look at it myself no matter what he says. How can we live like this! It feels like we’re living in the 80’s. Or at least, I think that’s what the 80’s would have been like. So, I would love to say,’ See me tomorrow,’ I’m just not sure if you’ll see me tomorrow. See me later. 

To The Hospital

19-02-2014 Wednesday

Mr Bent was taken to hospital last night. They took him there in an ambulance with sirens and lights and all. They took him out on one of those bed on wheels. I know there is a name for those things, but it slipped my memory. They had him wrapped up in blankets and strapped to the bed. He looked like an Egyptian mummy. I don’t think he was dead. Mum said they were taking him to hospital because there was something wrong with his heart. Dad said he thought Mr Bent didn’t have one. Which I thought was a really cruel thing to say. I am not speaking to Dad until he has formaly apologised. To me and Mr Bent.
I believe we are going to pay Mr Bent a visit tonight. Dad does not want to, but Mum insists. ‘Mr Bent hasn’t got anybody and I feel it is our neighbourly duty to at least pay him one visit,’ Mum said. I agree with her, but I don’t think Dad will appreciate it much if I said so, so I am keeping my mouth shut. Dad can be quite the sourpus. I wonder what made him that way. Talking bout dad.
Internet has been down since yesterday and not only do I miss it for school, I also miss facebook, twitter, wordpress and gmail. I am writing my blogs, but I can’t post anything till the problem is solved. Dad has been saying he’d fix it, but nothing so far. Every time I ask him to have a look at it he makes some hand gestures and he mumbles something lik busy, difficult and some very inaudible words and walks off. Mum hasn’t a clue what to do and neither of them will let me have a look at it. Looks like I am up shit creek without a paddle.
Mr Bent’s health is worse than my Internet problems though. I asked Mum if there was anything we could do. All that I could think of was maybe clean up his house. Last time I was there all of his books were still on the floor, and couch, and chairs, and tables, and mostly everywhere but where they should be. Mum said it might be nice of me if I did go over and make some room. Luckily we got the keys from Mr Bent just before they drove him to hospital. Which reminds me of the word I was looking for ‘gurney’, that was it. Anyways, I will go over to Mr Bent’s house when I have finished writing this blog.
The reason I want to finish this blog first is that I am a bit sad and worried and feel like I don’t really have anybody to talk to. Dad is out to work – I am not speaking to him anyways – and Mum probably wouldn’t understand. She is too caught up in her own ideas of how to deal with situations like this that she will start imposing those ideas onto me, which will most likely frustrate me even more. Mr Bent would be the best person to talk to about these things, but he is in hospital. This blog is more or less the only outlet I have got at the moment. 
I am going to go over to his place now to clean up and sulk a little. Mum is going to get some flowers and a card for when we go and visit Mr Bent in hospital tonight. If I come across any good books while cleaning up, I will bring them so he has something to do. I guess it could get rather boring in hospital. Especially when all you can do is just lie there and stare at the ceiling. See me tomorrow.