forecourt. It was pure rubbish, of course – the sort of thing he’d write a song about one day – but, I supposed, it was possible to find out all manner of strange things about yourself if you spent all that time on your own while the rest of the world was sleeping.
Walking past the magazine rack and the early Saturday editions of the Sun and the Mirror , I made my way straight to the freezer chest, opened it up and sucked in the pseudo-Arctic air. The smells and tastes of all the produce that had ever been there lingered like spectres: I could taste the ghosts of frozen peas; I could smell the ectoplasm of spilt Alabama Fudge cake. It was spooky.
The choice was limited: Raspberry Ripple, Chocolate, Vanilla or Tutti Frutti. Tutti Frutti caught my eye but I suspected – correctly as it happened – that it contained melon. I felt the same way about melons as I did about girls who said they’d love me forever and then dumped me. A box of no-name choc ices in the corner of the freezer cried out for attention but try as I might, they failed to seduce me, forcing me to opt for a tub of Wall’s Soft Scoop vanilla. You know where you are with vanilla. Its reputation, like that of Mother Teresa and Alan Titchmarsh, was spot free, which was highly useful, because at this particular moment, this close to the Edge, more than anything in the world, I couldn’t afford to be disappointed.
The man in the kebab shop – keeping his steely glares to himself this time – had ceased cabbage shredding and was locked in conversation with his kebab-slicing comrade. The kissing couple had gone only to be replaced by an old man with matted – possibly brown – hair protruding from underneath a lime-green woollen hat. His overcoat pocket was ripped and, even in this light, I could see it was heavily stained. The closer I came to walking past him, the more I began to think I could smell him.
He’s going to ask me for money .
At the height of my political awareness – five minutes into my first week at university – I’d made a pledge always to give to the homeless, even if it was only a penny. These days – since Aggi had left me, to be precise – in spite of my promise and acute sense of guilt, I no longer felt obliged to be nice to the needy. This wasn’t so much a change in my personal politics as a sudden realisation that I didn’t give a cack.
I set my eyes to a steely glare similar to that of the kebab chap, but the old man didn’t say a word to me. I spent the rest of the journey wondering why he hadn’t asked me for any money when he was so obviously in need of it. That thought carried me through the front door, into my flat and right into bed – leaving the object of my quest untouched and slowly melting on top of the TV.
Saturday
11.06 A.M.
I woke up with a start. I deliberately didn’t move for what felt like a long time, trying to fake that just-woken-up feeling. I closed my eyes tightly, then relaxed them, repeating the action, squeezing out all traces of daylight from my irises, but there was no getting back to sleep. Instead, I pretended to be unable to move my limbs, and, after some moments of great concentration, even the slightest movement became an act of considerable determination.
Freshly squeezed thoughts dripped down from my brain, pleading for an audience. I put any questions re impending fatherhood to the very back of my mind. Maybe I’ll wrap them up , I thought, while slowing down my breathing. Wrap them up and put a note on them saying, do not open – ever . Some things are, after all, better left unthought . None of the topics for debate that remained – familiar faces all – stood out from the crowd, which was pleasing because mornings, especially Saturday mornings, shouldn’t be overwhelmed with stuff to think about.
Waking up the morning after the day Aggi dumped me – a Saturday morning no less – had been a terrible ordeal, not least due to the horrible taste in my mouth and
Walking past the magazine rack and the early Saturday editions of the Sun and the Mirror , I made my way straight to the freezer chest, opened it up and sucked in the pseudo-Arctic air. The smells and tastes of all the produce that had ever been there lingered like spectres: I could taste the ghosts of frozen peas; I could smell the ectoplasm of spilt Alabama Fudge cake. It was spooky.
The choice was limited: Raspberry Ripple, Chocolate, Vanilla or Tutti Frutti. Tutti Frutti caught my eye but I suspected – correctly as it happened – that it contained melon. I felt the same way about melons as I did about girls who said they’d love me forever and then dumped me. A box of no-name choc ices in the corner of the freezer cried out for attention but try as I might, they failed to seduce me, forcing me to opt for a tub of Wall’s Soft Scoop vanilla. You know where you are with vanilla. Its reputation, like that of Mother Teresa and Alan Titchmarsh, was spot free, which was highly useful, because at this particular moment, this close to the Edge, more than anything in the world, I couldn’t afford to be disappointed.
The man in the kebab shop – keeping his steely glares to himself this time – had ceased cabbage shredding and was locked in conversation with his kebab-slicing comrade. The kissing couple had gone only to be replaced by an old man with matted – possibly brown – hair protruding from underneath a lime-green woollen hat. His overcoat pocket was ripped and, even in this light, I could see it was heavily stained. The closer I came to walking past him, the more I began to think I could smell him.
He’s going to ask me for money .
At the height of my political awareness – five minutes into my first week at university – I’d made a pledge always to give to the homeless, even if it was only a penny. These days – since Aggi had left me, to be precise – in spite of my promise and acute sense of guilt, I no longer felt obliged to be nice to the needy. This wasn’t so much a change in my personal politics as a sudden realisation that I didn’t give a cack.
I set my eyes to a steely glare similar to that of the kebab chap, but the old man didn’t say a word to me. I spent the rest of the journey wondering why he hadn’t asked me for any money when he was so obviously in need of it. That thought carried me through the front door, into my flat and right into bed – leaving the object of my quest untouched and slowly melting on top of the TV.
Saturday
11.06 A.M.
I woke up with a start. I deliberately didn’t move for what felt like a long time, trying to fake that just-woken-up feeling. I closed my eyes tightly, then relaxed them, repeating the action, squeezing out all traces of daylight from my irises, but there was no getting back to sleep. Instead, I pretended to be unable to move my limbs, and, after some moments of great concentration, even the slightest movement became an act of considerable determination.
Freshly squeezed thoughts dripped down from my brain, pleading for an audience. I put any questions re impending fatherhood to the very back of my mind. Maybe I’ll wrap them up , I thought, while slowing down my breathing. Wrap them up and put a note on them saying, do not open – ever . Some things are, after all, better left unthought . None of the topics for debate that remained – familiar faces all – stood out from the crowd, which was pleasing because mornings, especially Saturday mornings, shouldn’t be overwhelmed with stuff to think about.
Waking up the morning after the day Aggi dumped me – a Saturday morning no less – had been a terrible ordeal, not least due to the horrible taste in my mouth and
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