Seasons

I

I realised that I didn’t look out of the train window anymore, even when the contest for seats subsided during the holidays, and infact my ability to recognise my location by the sway of the tracks was indeed dismal but particularly helpful. The dark mornings and evenings had long passed, and yet the risk of catching the sky- dazzling blue, pink and orange liquid- gave an unbearable transitory glimpse into something which vaguely resembled peace, so I kept typing into my computer [I’m alright. It’s the deadline for Chair’s Actions today, so naturally no-one is adhering to it and I’m fucking stressed. How are you?]. There was a passage in a book I couldn’t recall which might have helped, and I couldn’t read it again- had it ever existed at all- because I didn’t have the time, and nonetheless the book itself was on the other side of town, sandwiched between other books in a box, between other boxes stacked neatly upon each other, inside a rented room at the storage facility – a type of suspended animation I couldn’t afford to resume. There would be other passages in other books that I wouldn’t read again or at all, because of the weather, or because I was busy, or because I would be dead in the future [I hope you are well. I have compiled a short list of outstanding queries regarding the project which I hope you are able to review/answer, if it isn’t too onerous]. Continue reading

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Bathtime

Surrounded by something that might have been advertised as marshmallow oil, as I lay in the bath I noticed there was a ladybird insect on the leg razor I had left on the windowsill. I watched as it tried to disembark, its little legs waving dramatically, but not quite being able to reach from the obscurely contoured object to the flat surface of freedom. I moved the razor very slightly by way of assistance, but felt this went slightly underappreciated by the ladybird which had stopped moving entirely in response. I thought of Stephen Fry conveying the story of the spider in the toilet- when once it was rescued it promptly died- and consequently decided to have no further involvement with the ladybird’s compelling struggle for survival. I did however wonder if telling my step mother “there was a ladybird” was a reasonable excuse for not cleaning everything away after the bath.

Upon returning to my bedroom and switching on the light I was reasonably distressed to find a huge, malformed creature in the corner of my room, which is not terribly usual. I did however then realise that this was merely a shadow, and turning around I found the source was my lampshade… whereupon the ladybird had settled. “Oh, hello,” I said, “it’s you again”.

“Hello,” said the ladybird in reply, in a deep and terrifying voice, “I have a message for you”.

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