Bright morning, hard light through the single window; migraine-bright, chill in the air. Boiler's on the blink again, and up here we still need it. Warm Spring my aunt Sally.
Driving to work - a fat woman in expensive clothes rushes across the road as the lights turn green, greeted by hooting and shouting from the paradigmic white van beside me. I stare at her, confused; she holds her hands together in a cricketer's catch, thumbs touching and nothing else. Her fingers are leporous, patchy with white flakes. Her eyes are nervous.
It occurs to me that she has been doing some DIY and glued her hands together.
Static office, whines and hums, ringing phone. Silence from my project manager, damn her.
My back teeth are aching - my dentist will chastise me for a lack of care, and show me (humuliation) the brushing chart, again. I must reach back there and clean - never mind the gag reflex. But I have no desire to begin each day with self-defeating regurgitation. Obviously, when you throw up, you then have to brush your teeth. Futile exercise - bring on the sealant. It was in the paper the other day.
You know, some people actually make money out of writing like this - Nick bloody Hornby, and that bloke who wrote about ejaculating on his secretary's eyebrows.
Lunch. |
