The television blares apocalypse, the alarm clock drills incessantly. I ignore both, cocooning myself in my smelly duvet.
Tumble out of bed and stumble to the kitchen and pour myself a cup of damnation! I've run out of coffee. Will Mark would notice if I nick a spoonful of his? Just call me J Alfred Prufrock. Stand the mug in the sink under a blast of hot water to dislodge the mould. Take the coffee into the bath. Lie submerged, unmoving. One of our submarines.
Slack M&S will have to do, and a wouldn't-be-seen-dead shirt. Riffle through the post. URGENT DELIVERY for me. It's from Oxfam - oh joy, perhaps they've sent me a care package. Lock and double-lock the door, weave around the maroon crocodile of pre-school tots. A bus is at the stop. I run uncoordinated and flash my pass. It has expired. Seriously consider rolling down the hill.
Cut someone up at the ticket machine. Not literally, but don't push me, OK? Vaguely scan a rubbish book, taking nothing in. I notice the smell of burning - that's not me, is it? The train rattles on, above ground at first. I go with it into the tunnel of despond. The Lilac Time in my ears:
It was the day before the day before yesterday
When we thought everything would now go our way
We inherited a fortune of innocence
And they took it all away
We travel on the last bus from sanity
Through provincetown to cities of obscurity
And somewhere down the road it occurs to me
That I might have missed my stop
But I will not
Return to yesterday
Or smooth out the human clay
We'll face this new England like we always have
In a fury of denial
We'll go out dancing on the tiles
Help me down