I knew it was a bad idea walking home at night. It takes too long. Ten minutes on the bus, thirty by foot. Thirty minutes is too long, it gives my mind time to flicker between the most stupid of things, rather than concentrate on the one most important item that should be running through my brain right now.
First to burst centre stage as I walk past the new house development is Marc Almond. That record of his has been going through my head every five minutes, it seems to be on the radio every five minutes. Great song, ‘A Different Kind Of Love’, a last amazing long note held by the former Soft Cell singer which seems longer than many complete songs. I found the video on YouTube, wonderfully quirky as always with Almond. And here I am stepping off the kerb and the chorus wells up yet again inside my head. Please, Radio 2, have a new record of the week tomorrow. Please. Of course, Carol can’t stand Marc…
Must pay the council tax tomorrow. Really should have set up the direct debit last year, but we were planning to move house so I thought it easier to pay for a few months by debit card each month. I didn’t expect to still be in the same house twelve months later. And having to remember to pay online each month. Just wish Carol would stop nagging me about it.
Ah, it’s Line Of Duty tonight, wonder if I’ll get time to watch it. Looks promising, but not yet in the same league as the story line with Keeley Dawes a few years ago. And must remember to record Homeland. Suppose Carol will be watching that Eastenders crap.
Front lawn needs doing, meant to do it Wednesday, then it bloody rained on Thursday, didn’t it? Typical. Stupid forecasters saying it would be dry all week. And where was the heat wave promised last week?
Writers’ Group Monday, might have to give that a miss, obviously. Maybe not though, could play it cool, couldn’t I? Haven’t got anything written, I’ll have to rehash something from last year, they’ll never notice, most of them are only there for the coffee anyway. And if I hear one more poem. Carol likes to write poetry, doesn’t she? Typical.
Look at that prat parked there. Two wheels up on the kerb. How’s a mother with a buggy meant to get by? Or an elderly person on a mobility scooter? Plenty of room if he parked properly on the road. I should go around photographing these idiots then email them to the local press. Or start up a Twitter feed to expose these parking idiots.
Should’ve worn my other jacket tonight, but didn’t know I was walking home, did I? This one’s fine for showers but the wind cuts straight through. So hard to find any with two decent-sized pockets. Where do people carry their keys and wallet these days? One pocket just isn’t enough. And the mobile. Can’t stand jamming my trousers with so many bits and pieces. Carol bought me this one last Christmas, didn’t she?
Home at last. Really should have decided this on the way back, shouldn’t I?. Knife or pillow? Now, let’s think…Carol’s surprisingly strong, isn’t she? Don’t fancy a wrestling match on that rickety old bed.
Damn knife drawer, I never did get round to oiling it…