The bright white of the walls of the room, sanitary, inexplicit, were offset by the darkness of the corners; unlit due to the heady realism of maintenance costs, or perhaps a desire to fester fear, uncertainty. The policeman certainly sat in his plastic chair. When he stood he would leave a sweaty outline of his crotch on the seat.

‘My mother is very proud of me.’

The words barely resonated in the polystyrene buffer of the false ceiling, they were absorbed into the fluffy inaneness of the filing cabinets and convection heater. A crusty remnant of a damp tissue ball dangled precariously above the policeman’s head, wafting vaguely in the waves. He fiddled with his pen and perspired onto his chair. He should have switched the convection heater off. He was only peripherally aware of this.

‘Although she’s dead. I killed her.’

Suddenly the room went very cold. The policeman held his pen, mid-tap. The potted plants on the windowsill quivered with the astriction.

‘I thought this knife was my finger, and her heart was a loaf of bread.’

In the swathes of cool heat and perplexity, he at last noticed that she had extended her finger. It was withdrawn in her next statement, too quickly to comprehend the rippling actions of diminutive human consciousness.

‘Everyone makes mistakes.’

Somewhere in time the ripples would intersect. Uncertainty grew from his lungs, palpitating breaths shuddering in liaison with the potted plants who were literally beside themselves with all the attention they were getting. The heat began to crawl into his flesh again, slowly, ascending the hairs on his back with each cruel second which passed. He remembered foggily that he’d left half a cup of coffee on his desk in the main office, by the window with a view of the sky which had vomited sleet for most of the week.

‘My Dad’s dead too, I thought his brain was a block of cheese.’

His desk had a pleasant coolness. The coffee powder his wife had bought for him to take to work was nice. Not great, but nice.

‘I put the cheese on the bread, you know.’

A rattling at the door convulsed words out from the pit of his stomach which he wasn’t quite prepared for.

‘But… we brought you in to… discuss… getting the pigeons off the roof,’ he struggled to pick up his pen which he didn’t remember dropping.

‘Never mind all that,’ she replied. ‘It was the worst meal I’ve ever had.’


‘It’s a frozen smoothie,’ she said, ‘but I’ve just hit a vein of anti-anxiety medication and I think it goes all the way to the bottom.’

He raised his eyebrows and walked away.

She didn’t blame him, she would have done the same, had she remembered to bring her horse legs.


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.