I have two legs. This much is real. There was a time, a moment without a screen or dignity, or let’s face it, basic common decency, when I might only have been left with one. Later he blocks me on Twitter.
I am an interrupted civil servant. This much is real. The civil is diminishing, the servile is harder to poison. I get a pay slip with zeros all over it every month. One day, HR will come after me. I have no talent for career choices.
I read shite writing. This much is real. I say it isn’t fit for purpose, this road safety audit. The Road Safety Officer says you don’t understand. That is your subjective judgement. I say two people are dead.
I have a father. This much is real. He is dead. My father is responsible for all the traits I despise in myself. It is easier to blame the dead than the living. I sip peppermint tea. Practice mindfulness on a red felt chair. The chair is the same colour as the Bakelite phone that used to ring on Sundays.
I am not a cat. This much is real. If I were a cat, I would spend much of the day under a Colombian hand-woven blanket contemplating my part in the catastrophic decline of small mammals. As I am not a cat, I spend much of my day under clothes contemplating my part in the catastrophic decline of everything else.
SANDERLINGS 