He was so lazy that he couldn’t even do the things he enjoyed doing like eating and watching television, because it was just too much effort. He was so lazy that he found it an ordeal to do nothing but mooch around the house all day in his dirty underpants munching pistachio nuts and quaffing fizzy drinks.
As well as being lazy (some would say because of being lazy) he was also very bored — so bored that on weekends and holidays he could think of nothing better to do than to sleep.
Every Friday night, for instance, Henry would go to bed around nine, nine thirty. He would wake up around eight on Saturday morning, doze in bed for an hour or two, then get up and shuffle to the toilet. After that, he would either go back to bed, or make himself a cup of tea then try and decide how to spend the day.
“What do you feel like doing?” He would ask himself. “Play with the dog? Nah, he’s got his own stuff to do. Read a book? Nah, nothing worth reading. Listen to some music. Nah, heard it all before.”
Most times he would get back into bed, pull the covers over his head, and lose himself in slumberous repose. He slept most of the time— it was easier that way. On the odd occasion if he was feeling particularly energetic he would sit on the sofa and doze in front of the television for a couple of hours, then get back into bed for an afternoon nap.
During the week, he would turn up late for work, spend most of the time goofing off, leave early, contribute the bare minimum (nothing, to be exact). Mondays were the worst. Colleagues would ask, “did you have a nice weekend Henry, what did you get up to?” And he, embarrassed and furtive, would fumble a reply, “ah you know, the usual…” (ie nothing).
On really bad days when sleep would not come, he would stumble around the crappy little apartment, trying to think of something to do, something to occupy the long slow hours stretching to eternity. (Something to eat? Nah… too hard to get it together. Watch a bit of TV? Nah… don’t feel like it. Walk up to the shop and buy something? Nah… too hot, too tired.)
It might have been endearing (well, maybe not) if he hadn’t been such a whingeing loudmouth about it: “I’m so bored…” he would moan, “…so depressed …nothing to do…” .
Over the years, things went from bad to worse. Eventually Henry wouldn’t or couldn’t get out of bed at all. He actually lived in his bed— eat, drank, slept, crapped and pissed in that godforsaken bed. You can imagine what state the sheets were in.
By that stage he was married, which was lucky for him. For very peculiar if not unfathomable reasons his wife, Darla, loved him to bits and looked after his every need— dotingly, obsessively, unceasingly— including his ‘personal needs’ shall we say. She made it her mission in life to ...