The Flight to Norway

I awoke in the usual manner- a screaming, birthing, quickening rage against light and noise that no one else on earth feels. If only other men had the power of will that I possess, to fight through that pain that only I feel on awakening. Imagine what the world could accomplish if other people, unencumbered with the immense effort it takes me merely to open my eyes, could cast that will out into the world, meld it, shape it, take hold of it, what mankind might now have achieved. It pains me merely to think of it, as I do, each morning, which adds to my burden.

However my will is strong and I bounded out of my beddings with the energy of a newly sprung lamb thing. I showered quickly, and brushed my teeth with an electrical toothbrush. I?ve tried for many years to simply hold the brush over the tooth that requires cleaning, but childhood habit makes me rush the moving bristles back and forth over my daggers vigorously, often to the point of making my gums bleed. I find red gives my teeth a healthy, corporeal glow that other men respect as strong.

?I have an electrical toothbrush. Do you?? I find is the signal my bloody maw must surely make other men in receipt of.

I jaunted down Child?s Hill towards Golders Green station. It was a crisp, sunny morning of the type that I have encountered only in the great city of London. I stopped in to the local Sainsbury?s to purchase some food. Cheese, German salami, and strips of dried mango were my chosen fare. I saw my friend Robert at the bus station. What a good man my friend Robert is, I thought to myself. Honest, upstanding, always willing to help a fellow.

He waved at me with a forced casualness that I found entirely un-nerving. It was a hand movement possessed of such pre-meditated intent that I was instantly taken aback. Was he merely waving because that was what you were supposed to do when someone you know is approaching you? Perhaps he doesn?t care for me at all, and societal rules were just forcing him to wave, even though he would perhaps rather not choose to wave? How beaten down by society was this man! Waving at me out of pure obligation to an outmoded concept of politeness. I felt myself filled with pure contempt for him. I began to work up a large gob of spit in my mouth, with which to project into his face, to show him just what I thought of his enforced greeting.

?Is that all you?re bringing?? he said, gesturing to my bag of groceries.

?No, I have a backpack on.? I said after swallowing, turning slightly to let him see the bag of clothing I carried on my back. ?Do you think me a fool, to go to Oslo without clothing?? I didn?t say, but certainly considered saying. I chose not to, because I believe the venom with which I said the former sentence made spelling out the latter quite redundant, and he already got the message, quite clearly. He is a clever fellow and I have always respected him for that.

The rest of our party arrived, good folk all, and we boarded the bus to Stanstead airport. On the journey I shared out the provisions I had purchased previously. The mango slices were met with multiple acclamations of approval, which filled me with a delicious golden light, that I could bring such joy to good friends who meant so much to me. I offered the German salami to my friend Scott, one of the wisest and most widely-read individuals I have everlong had the pleasure to call friend. He declined the sausage, citing a case of extreme vegetarianism.

Looking down at the tube of raw meat, fatty deposits streaked through the redness, I suddenly saw the foodstuff through the eyes of my friend, and was revolted. Repulsion flowed through me; I could hardly believe the substance was being held in my hand, whereas just moments before I had been savouring its meaty goodness. Scott has destroyed the sausage for me by making him empathise with his disgust for it. The meat was wasted. I stared at Scott for a long time, hating him for stealing my food via his rejection of it. I considered forcibly ramming the fodder down his throat, to make him feel the opposite of what I was feeling, but I thought the jovial banter we were enjoying may have been somewhat disrupted by this.

Scott?s torment of me continued at the airport with an offer to lend me 500 kroner. Did the man think me a pauper? I accepted his kind offer, having no money of my own, and thanked him, reflecting on my good fortune to have such generous friends.

The drinking began on the aeroplane. I had purchased a flask free of taxation at the airport cigarette and alcohol dispensary, of vodka that had been altered to take on the aspect of the flavour of raspberries. With the purchase of some lemonade from the attractive air hostesses to act as a mixing agent, we began a drinking binge that did not let up for the remainder of our stay in Oslo - that strange city no one escapes from until it has left its mark on his liver.

The flight was pleasant and uneventful. Through extremely clever foreplanning on my own part, we were seated close to the rear doors of the plane and made quite a swift exit. The passport-control Norwegian failed to stamp my passport. However my mood was too buoyant to be affected by such trifles. We established from the information Norwegian that the bus to the city was not due to leave until a quarter to the hour, so we retired to a nearby publican to toast our success in navigating our way across Europe, and toast to the birthday of my friend Chris, whose birthday it was. I quietly envied the years of experience he would always have over me, unless I somehow managed to outlive him for three years, an unlikely scenario.

Disaster struck when the first round, our first collective Norwegian purchase, came with a price täg of over 300 kroner. I?ve always been possessed of an incredible mathematical facility, and within minutes had established that this resulted in an individual beer price of over six pounds (sterling) each. I fell to my knees and beat my breast and cursed the Holy God that had created this world and saw fit to place me in it. No man?s suffering in all of history has ever equalled mine, I appreciated, and felt oddly privileged to martyr myself, Christlike, to the economic rape that all must suffer, but not on as many levels as I.

After we had finished our most excellent draft, we realized with some horror that the bus actually left not at a specified time, as we were told, but simply as soon as the passengers from our particular flight had boarded. We had been left behind. Whereas before I had considered my misery at the high beer price to be the bottommost plateau of suffering I was yet to experience, I now realized that this was merely a ledge which I had briefly clung to, and I was now plummeting into the chasm of endless despair that God has created and kept empty for only the most tormented of souls (to wit, my own). Bien sûr.

A quick and pleasant cab-ride to the train station later, and we were travelling in comfort and style in reclinable chairs, sipping from our various flasks, laughing heartily at the poor folk who had taken the bus- how cramped and unpleasant their travel must be compared to ours! I felt as though events had conspired to place me there, at this time, on that train, with my good friends, and I felt truly blessed, watching the beautiful countryside of Norway flow by us as liquid as the mighty fjords that soon stretched out before my glistening eyes.