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A networking event. www cards. Networking cards. Not network southeast, give me a train card get me away from this shit. No it's the doubleyouu doubleyou double youuuu something dot com plastic cards and plastic smiles brigade we have here. Double ewe double ewe double ewe sheep feeding in herds flocking to the coffee like a bunch of starving wolves ohh mixed metaphor here. I wouldn't turn my back on any of them I can tell you that now and they call this networking? So where is the big hungry spider ready to come and gobble me up. Fuck this.
We can unlock your phone. Can you? Can you make it ring? Perhaps you have been eaten by a rampaging buffalo, fresh out of the zoo. Such things happen. Don't they? Why no phone call? Hello. Is there anybody there? I am floating around a limp half-arsed balloon ready to collide with a telegraph pole. How about that for being connected. What am I playing at? Playing at a real LIFE? We can unlock your phone. There is nothing to unlock, I am here. Nothing to hide, naked. Waiting. Waiting for your call. How romantic. Turn the fucking thing off.
Coffee grinds swilling around in the bottom of a chipped mug. Can you tell me my future? Tell me it is something different to the grey tarmac stretch of waste stretching ahead of me. Tell me something I can believe tonight, tell me something new. Clock ticking on an empty mantelpiece, ready to strike the hour, holding it's breath; Sink or swim? And we wait for him to chime the hours, the days, the weeks stretching out into a grey shadowy blur of dust and nappies and squandered hours. Excuse me while I do the sensible thing. Lie to me.
The answer is moments away. We're waiting for your call. Double money; limited time only. Ten thou. This is a life-changing amount of cash. The answer is on the screen. Let me change your life. I am mesmerised by your implausibly golden face, it glows through a post-pub haze of kebabs and beer fumes. Next time, could it be me? No more hangovers, no mysterious scrawled phone numbers or half-remembered names. A new life, a new me. We drink to forget, don't we? Take me away from this. The answer is moments away. This is a good time to play.
Roses are red, violets are blue. I want your money so I'll screw you. Carnations are yellow, and virgins are white. I'll give you the best ride of your life. Roses are red, your money is green. I can see where you've come from, big boy, stop venting your spleen. I can spin you a story, tell you a lie. Now stop talking and let's eat some pie. Are we alone yet, lets play some eye spy. What can you see with your little eye? And believe me brother, I've seen better. You may be from America, so is this&
Sweets for a sweetheart& Tell me darling, is this the polite version of I want to shag you but not with that doggy breath? Do you know how ridiculous you look in that shiny grey suit? Don't tell me that's your interview suit. Or maybe you got married in it. Looks like you haven't worn it in such a long time. Give me the e numbers, better than any botox. I'll keep a little shit like you interested in me so maybe I won't meet your type here ever again. Do I look like a marriage guidance counsellor to you?
Seven, the lucky number. Why has it come down to numbers again? Something so careful, so clinical. So easy to control. They do the same thing every time, add, subtract, divide, multiply. All little neat boxes and rows. All correct and information, the steady blue ticks of teacher next to them. Well, let me tell you a secret. But I'll have to whisper it and promise not to tell anyone? Numbers don't exist. It's all made up. Make-believe.. Suppose two and two do make five? Well, why don't they? Four, five, four five. What's the difference? They're just pretend words.
I saw a fox once, on my way back from the pub. I think the only ones left now are urban foxes, the toffs have offed his country cousins. He looked more at home that I did, just mooching along his tail in the air. He was so still and quiet I almost missed him. Easier pickings down our way, I expect someone feeds him. What was he doing in the main high street though? He wasn't sniffing the bins or anything, bit beneath him I expect. I remember the sound of his claws scuffing on the tarmac; slaters babe.
They're more afraid of you than you are of them. Can't you see the way they curl in on themselves, hide their faces, kick out the long gangly legs? Classic fear response. See, they run off soon as you start basking near them with a newspaper. I think it's the noise myself. Just like spiders in the bath. See them grasping, jumping, flailing against the slippery surface. But just as sneaky too, the little bastards, look at the way they eye you up when they think you're not looking. Dangerous. Irrational. Who knows what they'd do when you're not looking.
Eric in accounts is having one of his off days. Bless him. He's a complete fruit loop, but he's the only one who has access to the stores of tipp-ex and we've completely run out, as usual. But I think he's been in the store cupboard for too long. He's come up with all sorts of theories. He asks me in all seriousness - Who the hell invented the paperclip? I mean, seriously? They're so twised. We whisper about sniffing aerosol and leave him to it. After all, who else is going to get us our lovely yellow post-it notes?
Light the blue touch paper, stand back and enjoy. Best entertainment since Punch and Judy. You know how to pull the strings don't you darling, from afar. I'm not interested in your paunchy stomach or your bald head, but your partner — yes you have one where did you get her — is convinced your beery breath turns me on. And so you stand aside and put my coat on and yes I can put in on myself but you want to be a gentleman, and make sure your woman sees it and now she won't speak to me. Nicely played, sir.
Once upon a time there was a writer. She had signed up to a website that asked her to write one hundred words a day for one whole month. She had been staring at a blank screen for what seemed like hours now and had absolutely nothing to show for it. Not a sausage. She realised that she was hungry and had some tea. Back to the great blank screen which now seemed to be mocking her; come on, it sneered, can't you even manage one word? She put her fist through the fucking screen and that was that. Finis.
A meeting. A room. A group of friends. A shared burden. A small request. A fun time had watching the tumbleweeds as they drift slowly across the collective vision of the room. A group of friends. Another small request. A slow concern turns to anxiety as the thought gathers that they are all dead and that she has been conversing with the dead. A room with bright yellow-orange-blue walls and red chairs. A small spider makes his way surreptitiously along the far window. No-one is watching. Unspoken words crawl against each other and flatten against the wall. Not my turn.
Be your own boss. Don't let the fuckers tell you what to do, no really, DON'T LET THE FUCKERS GRINT YOU DOWN after all you don't want to live your life according to what they say no don't listen to them talk to the hand because the ears sure aint there so. DoyouknowwhatI mean? I really don't think you know what I'm talking about could you please stop looking over my shoulder anyone would think you were desperate to get away from me and I'm trying to help you after all who the fuck do you think you are anyway?
What happened today? Well, I'm sure I did something. The hours stretch away like blank sheets and I wonder what exactly I have done to fill them. I see them gliding by. Perhaps I have run out of ink. I look online to the blank pages as they scroll by with their blank lives and the blank faces. Is there anybody there? Can you hear me tonight? Tell me I'm not along, it's beginning to feel like an episode of survivors TELL I#ME IS THERE ANYBODY FUCKING THERE????? COME ON YOU CAN'T ALL BE hiding? Is it something I've said?
It's not quite the weekend though, is it? Today is Thursday. Well, is that it? Give me Ingrid Bergman, I bet she didn't do Thursday. Did she? Thursdays are dark, RAINY, MISERABLE. Thursdays are a nothing day. What is the point of it? But really. Never see Tom Cruise having one, or even, even Madonna. Now you NEVER see her having a Thursday. She lives in a Friday. Always Friday for her. And Simon Pegg? He's a Tuesday. Now Jack Nicholson. He's a Saturday morning, 2am. Strip club and Champagne and smoky club and sequinned starlets. Definitely not a Thursday.
Up to Newcastle, up the toooon. Sparkle Let me share with you the last sandwich on the train, a vegetarian sausage and egg toasted Panini. It's been on the train longer than I have. I'm soooooo sorry girl behind me. Yeah right. Eat your fucking chocolate and pretend that diet coke is going to make all the fucking difference. You'd only vomit the fucking thing anyway, and yes he would leave you if you put the weight on. Ha ha fucking ha yes I am laughing at you. So wipe that look off your face, you are beneath my notice.
Hunger is good. Hunger is strength; the prod that keeps you going long after your flabby friends have succumbed. Hunger is the prod, a little something to what the appetite. Give it to the cows, prod them along, spark some interest in their dull bovine faces. Come on get with the programme. Feel the burn, baby, keep it going it'll keep you warm. I am not tired. I am not tired. I am not tired. Keep it coming baby, I can take it. I am stronger than you. Don't look past the smile baby. Hunger is good. Hunger is strength.
A day on the beach. Long sands beach and the dogs and my friend by my side. The surfers in the drink and the memories of student years crowding behind us and swarming through us. The crisp clear sky cuts above the dirty outcrop of Tynemouth priory. Nothing but rocks and stone and the stripped driftwood and flotsam of someone else's life. Picking over Morrison's bags, half buried in wannabe mountains, we stroll over to the smouldering remains of the only decent cafÃƒÆ'Ã‚Â© on the beach. Crusoe's. The only safe on the beach. BBQ tonight then, love? Lets eat out.
Bored. Bored Bored Booorrrrreeeed. Bored. Nothing to do. Well, no, plenty to do but who the fuck wants to do it. Welcome to Mondaysville. And it's still fucking raining. Stop complaining. Think about the starving in Africa. What they wouldn't do for a little bit of rain right now. So there we go, lovely virtuous thoughts. I am going to make a donation to Oxfam today. This lunchtime. So there we go, I've saved the world now. What next, world peace? Personally I am of the opinion that most wars are caused by Mondays. Nothing better to do, you see.
Time for a nap. Time to sleep. The darkness seems in through the cracks, swirls up against the windows, sucks the energy from your legs. Everything is too much effort. Switch the lights on, quick! Check under the bed. The man on the moon is coming for you tonight. You can lock the doors. He'll come up through the cracks in the floor. What are you waiting for? Even Santa isn't to be trusted, and it's what, four weeks to go? Set up the tree, string up the tinsel, let it reflect back at you, wash off the dust. Goodnight.
Let me tell you a secret. No, really. Switch off that phone. And close the door. Oh go on, darling. I've got something lovely for you. A little surprise. Oh. Come on. Closer, now, closer. What, afraid to be along with me&.? You think I'll rape you or something? Don't be silly, I'm just a girl. Now, come on darling. Yes, closer. Come on, closer than that. Just a bit closer& just a bit closer. Believe me, it'll be worth it. It's going to blow your mind. Oh yes. Yes, that's it. That's it darling. Just a little closer& C'mon&.
Twenty three. Dead at twenty three. Degrees centigrade? Dead at twenty three years old? What kind of fucking note is this? Dead at twenty three? Twenty three smith street? Who knows? And who the fuck is it that's supposed to be dead? Why is everyone Talking at once? What do you mean, don't I know? No need to get shirty with me, of course I don't know who wrote that note. No, it's not my writing. Twenty three what, why doesn't anybody explain what's going on to me? I don't know! Of course. I hurt my hand in the door.
Twenty four. So here it goes twenty four hours in the day. Twenty four fucking hours, and tel me. What have you done? Because twenty four fucking hours goes by so fucking quickly. Twenty fours hours leads to twenty eight days. Or thirty one or whatever the fuck it is this month. And then oh my god, isn't it twelve months this year and oh well I am go riveted at so many fucking sales you have made this month alone and how oh gos you'll make agreat fucking match for some brain dead checkout ASSISTANT as ALDIs. Congratulations cunt.
One hundred words. One hundred words. One hundred whole words. You could build a world with that. One hundred whole worlds. All it takes, a window into someone else's life. Their soul. Yeah, you think? I've known people for twenty years, most of them talkers. Some screamers, too, but lets not get into that. But that's it, isn't it? How many people listen, really listen, to what you say? You ever seen that double glazing slam over their face just after they ask about your weekend? And how many words do you give them then? Is one hundred ever enough?
Never on a Sunday because that's my day of rest? Well, that's very nice I'm sure my love, when I get a Sunday. Bit of a value judgement isn't it? Not bad if someone else cooks the roasties and makes the beds and does the Monday morning sandwiches and where are the shirts. You wanted this job you go do it, baby, I'm not stopping you. Yeah, sit back, relax. The magic Hoover fairy will do the rest. It's like Christmas but on s smaller scale. And oh my god, it'll soon be December& Joy to the world. Yeah. Right.
It's blowy out today. The sodden leaves are putting up a poor show, languidly rising from their saturated beds before staggering on the breeze to an unceremonious fall. Hey, I can empathise with that. It's Monday morning after all, but this is as good as it's going to get today. The sky outside is low and grey, thank god. I couldn't stand it if it were one of those clear blue skies. You see, I'd want to go outside. Feel the fresh clean air on my face, brush away the cobwebs. And you are not here to laugh at me.
Four weeks. Are you gone that long? Hoe could it be four weeks? Why, anyone would think you weren't on the pill. You cunt. You know I don't like condoms, what were you thinking of? You know I don't want kids, never have done. You think you're so clever, you think you've pulled a fast one? What do you mean, I'm not the only one who can do that then? You think that's funny then, huh? What's so funny about this&.? Stop your whining, chick. I'm not the first and I'm not the last. And I'm not interested. Happy Christmas.
But you are all here for me. Come and listen. That's hat you said, isn't it? You were to come here. I am so glad you're here. You know, they said you were coming and I said I didn't believe you& I have been counting the hours. I didn't think you would come, you see, I thought& well, what does it matter? I was wrong, you see. I thought. Well, no look, have some of this. Jacobs creek. Nicely chilled. I thought you weren't going to come, I thought& But you are here. Yes, anyways. You do care. Don't you&.?
Lights flickering dimly on oily waters reflect the filth of the day back to me. Throw it out and it will return, as sure as the tide. Welcome to the river Medway. Cold wind creeps in through the doorway, hugging the ground like a thief. I can see a girl standing in the doorway, scarf wrapped around her face like a veil. Her legs are very thin, and she is scrunched up like a ball of wool. I wish she would stand away from the automatic door. Hours to wait until closing time; fun and games and pleasure. Yeah. Right.
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