Dear id, as I write this I am watching a documentary on ancient Egypt. They’re making the horses run into lampposts. Not the Egyptians, the historians. I’m not quite sure why. Anyway, I am also not quite sure why you felt it appropriate to close an umbrella over my head in the high street- being trapped in the sunshine in a yellowy prison made me sweat so much that when I finally emerged I resembled a newborn slime-covered giraffe, had it been birthed from an umbrella. Was it because nothing was of interest, or because of that time I had to open the banana with the paperclip? Anyway, it was barely my fault, you know, that they don’t allow knives in the office anymore. Plus, bananas can get sloppy. Anyway, this was just a note to say that you need to be more vigilant when I’m sleeping- turns out that I wasn’t blinded, it was just sugar in my eye fluid. If you know who put it there I would appreciate a response, anyway.
I hadn’t wanted to for years with you, with myself, with the grey-haired owner of the furniture shop across the road, who had once urinated into the wheelie-bin when he thought no-one was looking.
The cat was looking. I was looking. Continue reading
There is a man I see as I am walking to work. He is middle-aged, dark haired, and carries his backpack over one shoulder, always his right. He is a rather portly gentleman and he walks at pace, he reminds me of one of my Uncles, should he have been portly and fast at walking. The frightening general disparity of lifeforms which occupy a metre of pavement and do not interact is molested and exaggerated as we pass in the street. We share the scent of the fruit stall, and the coffee shop; the beige undertones of the charity shop front window, and the shelter of awnings when it is raining. I do not know the colour of his eyes, but I fancy them to be brown, or perhaps green, a shimmering of blue, or spliced with hazel. He wears black trainers which accentuate his large form into a mass of darkness as he makes haste on the street, the red streak in my hair serving as the only hint of colour in the otherwise bleakness of our encounter. He wears the same jacket, never fully closed on account of his weight, in both rain and sunshine, and as we pass each other I can see a black shirt tucked into black trousers, partially concealed beneath his coat’s exterior. Continue reading