Run As Fast As You Can, Bear.

12/08/19

Home, eventually. Exhausted. The communal hallway is busy with stacked chairs, a tall floor-lamp and a box of crockery. Why? No mail of any interest.

The flat hasn’t burned down, been broken into, or flooded. The spider plants thrive, but the palm has mostly turned brown. Why? I cut off the offending fronds and bin them beneath the sink, and now it looks sad and skeletal. The boiler has cut out. Why? Thankfully, the oven is electric, so I heat pizza and drink the last half of the Pinot.

On the Metro from the city I bumped into Adam who used to be Hannah J’s beau. I know him through cutting his hair. She sells coffee, teaches tango. Adam has just finished work at a Vodaphone call centre and is glad to be able to bitch his session. Still, he is off to Bristol next month to begin some research for the government – what this means I am not sure. Buy some Golden Virginia from the Co-op. Why? I have been tobacco free for five days. Habits are made up of tiny habits. The first draw or two on the cigarette tastes good, but, midway, it tastes metallic. The wine tastes fizzy, but not in a good way.

There is an email from the landlord asking about the furniture in the communal hallway. I begin a reply to say that I don’t know the answer, but delete it before sending.

No hot water or heat, so go to bed. Scroll YouTube. After awhile, I am more awake than asleep, so I listen to Augustus Pablo on headphones (King Tubby Meets Rockers Uptown). I must be extremely (over) tired because what generally soothes seems quite crowded. I awake some hours later half choked with cable. The birds are laughing and the bin men’s voices are loud in the back alley. They are discussing football with lots of expletives.