Brendan has been taken away for his service. He needs a little TLC from his makers, a holiday, a few nights away from life-saving.
The lucky bastard. No such break from this toil for me.
His lights stopped working a while back, no doubt from the numerous car journeys I insist on bringing him on.
I don’t believe the dialysis machine was made for traipsing around rural Irish roads in the boot of my stupid car, which has a suspension that buckles at the sight of a pothole.
I now have a substitute in place in my home, and I like him even less. He is older, noisier, more obnoxious in the night-time hours.
He is probably a cantankerous old uncle to Brendan’s youthful boyishness. He has no time for my hasty set-up practices, the shortcuts I increasingly take, my strolling in home at 2am, with a tummy full of toxins mixed with vodka.
I feel the need to treat him as we did sub teachers back in the schooldays. With derision. You’ll note I’ve not even given him a name, and I name most objects in my possession.
But as with Brendan, and as with sub teachers, he will win all of our battles. I will return to him night after night, to curse him, and hate him, but knowing I need him.
Like a good little puppet on a string.