Saturday, 7 June 2014

thirty minutes a day

Yesterday for lunch I had a cheese sandwich and a coffee.  The bread wasn’t stale, the milk was in date, and after I chewed and swallowed my tummy stopped talking.  I sat on a particularly ugly red stool, too tall for a tallish man to touch the ground; I sit on it nearly every day.  
In the wind, on the other side of the glass smokers smoked their delicious smokes; I tried my best to call them idiots.  I sipped my coffee, brushed my crumbs from table to floor and missed my family.  I sent my dad a text message, talking footy.  He sent one back, talking footy.  The world felt about as big and complicated as the wine section at Tesco.  I laughed to myself without warning, and then laughed at my laugh, still trying to chew and touch the ground.      

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