This morning I found out that a guy from work died of cancer last night.
He turned 29 last week.

Then five minutes later, my wife rang to tell me that she had accidentally flooded the bathroom, and an hour’s worth of water went through my downstairs collection of books, destroying Harper Lee, Shakespeare, Dylan Thomas, Bob Dylan, Douglas Adams, Scott Adams, Roald Dahl, Mario Puzo...

Life sux.

The guy was Cancer Dude. I’d mentioned him earlier this year.

He left work and moved in with his parents on another island about six months ago when the doctors pretty much told him he was fucked.

He spent his remaining days out of it on morphine.

We put together a video for him, which some guys took down for his birthday.

This is all very sad. But also bad timing.

My right tear duct has been uncontrollably weeping at random times over the past couple of days.

And I’m scared it’s going to be like that time Mr Fitchitt died when I was 10.
We were told at the end of the day, and all the girls were crying.
Some of the boys were smiling, but I was careful to put on my sad face. He was a good teacher.

But my sad face must have looked a little too sad because I got hassled later by some of those shithead laughing boys for being a little cry baby because my teacher had died.

So while I’m sad (Cancer Dude was one of those nice people, who are a pleasure to know), I don’t want people to think I am actually crying.

I mean, crying’s OK. Jesus wept.
But I never cry.

It does nothing at all for my street cred.

I also had a teacher called Mr Haycock.

Why do these people become primary school teachers?