The sun that had been
burning for 4 days straight finally succumbed to grey cloud and rumble of an
oncoming storm. Lightning had flashed the previous night, cutting the London
sky every few minutes, striking wherever it may. Now it’s Wednesday. The worst
day. I’ve always said if the world’s to end, it’ll be 3pm on a Wednesday. The
middle time. Nothing going on, just inbetween everything that just happened and
anything about to happen. For now, 9am is the start
of nothing for me. I sit at work, waiting to go home. Waiting for I don’t know
what. Watching out the window at girls walking past, silk skirts and long hair
breezing silently across the high window, and then away. Soon the vans will
come, the deliveries will start. The voices will grow louder and get closer and
closer to me. By midday the noise will become white, unbearable. And it’ll be
all I can do to remain calm and to quiet myself. There have been times - more
and more - when I know if I open my mouth it’ll be all teeth and cursing. Wednesday. The sky still threatening. The people
sleep and talk at the same time, a remarkable talent that makes me want to
reach down their throat and pull out their vocal cords. It seems again the
summer sun has increased testosterone and decreased intelligence. All that blood
meant for the brain running straight to the cock. And that’s all fine. Natural,
physical. Whatever - just don’t talk to me. I have left in my wake, Friday
people, Sunday night girls and Saturday night drinking buddies…. All now
ghosts. Here I am floating in
Wednesday morning between everything that has happened, and anything about to, and
as ever thinking only of coffee. Coffee that I’m going to get right now.
(This is an old peice written over ten years ago that I thought good enough to post.)