By Mark Sadler
To all outward appearances I resemble a
respectable citizen; if not a pillar of the community then, at very
least, some kind of metaphorical supporting structure, such as a door
or window frame; the kind of person who you can unequivocally trust
to return a set of borrowed socket wrenches, or to mow your
father-in-law's lawn, while he is in hospital with kidney stones.
I hold down a steady job and remain on
good terms with my co-workers. I abide by the edicts of my local
neighbourhood association, no matter how absurd this shifting collage
of by-laws might become. Once a week I engage in three minutes of
tepid sexual intercourse with my partner, conducted in the missionary
position, for the express purpose of procreation. During this act of
physical lovemaking we both wear surgical-grade face masks, to
minimise the transmission of COVID-19 to any offspring that may
ensue.
Where my life deviates from the norm is
in a habit that I picked up while serving abroad in the Navy. Every
day, I consume anywhere between 400 to 450 mg of chelated magnesium.
This morning I slip through the
colourful strip curtain of a butcher's shop and ask the jolly
red-faced man, dressed in a stripy blue and white apron, behind the
counter, to cut me a 200mg piece of magnesium.
“Would you like it chelated sir?”
he enquires, with stiff formality, as if to indicate his pre-emptive
disapproval.
“Of course,” I reply, dry mouthed.
He responds with a raised eyebrow.
Afterwards his attitude towards me changes and becomes distinctly
frosty.
“Even the flanks, sir?”
“Yes, if you would,” I confirm,
adding nervously “I realise such a thing is as at odds with current
morals.”
The butcher sucks in his lips, as if he
is attempting to inhale his own mouth.
“It is not for me, a humble butcher,
to judge how a man takes his magnesium. After all, it is not in
breach of any earthly law, that I know of, for a man to consume
magnesium in chelated form. Though I cannot, for the life of me,
fathom why such an affront to our Lord is not illegal.”
I pay him and slip the package, wrapped
in greaseproof paper, into my pocket.
Knowing that, as soon as I leave, he
will be on the phone to the police, who will no doubt drag me
downtown on some made-up charge, I hasten through a maze of side
streets, populated by boutique jewellers and high-end designer
clothing stores. It seems as though everyone I pass has taken note of
my ruddy complexion that radiates good health and, having inferred my
secret, is now silently judging me. A police car rounds a bend in the
road ahead. As it crawls slowly towards me, I duck inside a kebab
shop where I mime being winded from the exertion of opening the door,
watching the reflection of the car in the menu above the counter, as
it idles past.
In a nearby smoothie bar, attached to a
yoga studio, I wash down my prize with a kale and wheatgrass
concoction, attempting to steady my nerves, knowing that what I have
swallowed is only enough to tide me over until the afternoon, when I
will be forced to hit up another magnesium butcher. A few months ago,
while on a court-mandated rehab kick, a fellow chelated magnesium
addict described to me the process that allows the supplement to be
extracted from rounds of premium Dutch cheese. The procedure is
laborious and requires specialist tools that are difficult to
purchase anonymously. On analysis it is more practical to buy
chelated magnesium on the street from licenced butcher shops with
good food standards scores.
Lined up alongside me on a row of
stools, tastefully upholstered in red leatherette, are my fellow
chelated magnesium users, sitting bolt upright and alert. Their
general topic of conversation is always the same: Bright-eyed
accounts of recent bicycle-assisted ascents of Mount Kilimanjaro, or
marathons undertaken while wearing antique diving suits to provide a
modicum of challenge.
I arrive home to discover the
housekeeper, Mrs Winscombe, waiting in the hallway alongside a huddle
of suitcases.
“Something of yours has been found,”
she announces cryptically. “Something that cannot be overlooked.
Myself and Mr Winscombe have tendered our resignations and will be
leaving here within the hour.”
I beg her to reconsider.
“Now that your secret is out, I think
it best for all concerned that we remove ourselves to a place of
employment that is more in keeping with our principles,” she
remarks judgementally.
Upstairs, I find my wife distraught. A
secret stash of chelated magnesium, that I concealed inside a small
toy van, has been discovered by my eight-year-old son, who ate it,
mistaking it for Kendal Mint Cake. In my absence a doctor has been
summoned. He has prescribed a greasy cheeseburger to offset the
effects of the supplement.
“You're a monster,” screams my
wife, as she pummels my broad, muscular chest with her tiny fists.
Later, as I sit alone, I become aware
of my son hovering in the doorway in his pyjamas.
“I just want you to know that I love
you dad,” he says, as his eyes well up with tears. “Even though
your life choices fill me with a sense of residual shame that my
young mind is unable to process, and that will require decades in
therapy to get the measure of.”
Filled with remorse, I promise him that
I will do better; knowing, all the while, that I will repeat today's
cycle tomorrow, minus Mr and Mrs Winscombe to lay out my clothes and
polish my shoes.
My addiction to chelated magnesium has
left me with lower blood pressure, a reduced risk of developing type
2 diabetes and a dark void where my soul should be.
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