Showers

I'm happy with my shower head. Say it three times, but Mohammed Ali is at the front door and handing me a shining new shower head and arm and demanding change. I don't want change. To be fair he's shorter than me and won't look me in the eye, let alone float like a pollen collecting insect.

This new showerhead sure is shiny. He demands entrance to my bathroom and shakes his head at my loverly old plastic showerhead. We argue over whether he can take it off. I say i'll do it myself later and it'll be fine. What i mean is that i will put it in the cupboard and forget about it. He wants to take the old one home with him as a scalp but i suspect an undergrouund market for old plastic showerheads. Mohammed Ali is not happy and i asked him to go outside again. We argue, he tells me the shower head is free and saves water and i tell him i don't want it.

I might be able to win this fight and come out the heavyweight winner of the Darebin region if it were not for my politics-history bastard student friend is laughing himself silly at me and my water wasting ways. His vegetarian, bearded face, smiling eyes behind windowed cells, keeps telling me that i'm not allowed to say no. Even if it does help alleviate the floods by getting rid of the water one shower at a time.

It takes Mohammed Ali about a minute to change it over. He starts to put my address down as Thornbury, i tell him its Northcote and he nods and writes Thornbury anyway. He makes me promise to tell the government men, that will call, that he did a good job.

The Shower is fine but i still yearn to stand beneath an idyllic heated waterfall; with water sloshing wastefully around my feet and out to sea. Maybe a few ferns about and no inner city educated types to not tell me to burn and consume society.