Thursday, 13 August 2009


Walking. London. A mop, a broom, and a sense of humour. Indoors somewhere. Outdoors now. Going somewhere else. Free rounds. Choosing drinks. Beer. Whiskey. Vodka. No money. ATM. Have to fight. Pacifism. Somehow money. Why the money, though? First two rounds are free. Fight a battle. Need to win. Manipulation. Elaborate dramatics. Lies and deceit. Fake victory. Confessions of love. Amazement. Impositions. Premonitions: true or false?

Need a vacation. Need some papers. Need to go to school. School? But I'm in university. School, university, what does it matter? So school. Unlit hallways, dusty classrooms; Summer holidays. Letter of inclusion. Need to do some favours. Monkey-faced boy sits in monkey-faced man's office. Need to do a favour for the Monkey-faces. Night outside; tubelights shine down. Dust, lines of dust, armies of dust. Room after room after room. Found what I was looking for, don't know how. Go back to the monkey-faces. Give them what they want, got what I want.

Walk out. Bright daylight. London. or is it Lahore? London. And Lahore. Seem the same, can't tell the difference. Got a ride? Got a ride. Not too far, just towards Mayfair. Been a tiring day. Black door, gold knob. Get out. Thanks a lot. Apartment building. Open the door. House on the inside. Open plan groundfloor, seats in a circle, half occupied. Older people. They know me. I know them. Others. They don't know me. I seem to know them. Talk of four years. Absolute exhaustion.

Hunger. Need a fix. Find a fridge. More people coming in. Some I don't know. Some I do. Open the fridge. Bread. Cold cuts. More people. Far too hot. vest and boxers. still routing through the fridge. Cheeses. Lots of them. So much variety. The cold cuts, too. Salad. Two slices of bread. All the while, more people. Olives. Cheese. Turkey. Cheese. Cheese with olives. Chicken breast. No, the other cheese. More people. Relatives. Indecent attire for the number of people there. Need a change of clothes. Presto; shorts on the chair. A shirt and a waistcoat too? Sister superior is present; I look funny. Must be the waistcoat. Get rid of the waistcoat. Still looking funny. Bare-chested now. No one complains. I don't feel odd. Need to finish sandwich. Looking for relish. Gorilla knocks me on the knee. Has to; he's on vacation. Who else would do it?

Back to the fridge. Need to find the right size. Still holding slice of bread. Find perfect cut of meat. First the cheese, then the meat. Interruptions. How's it going? Dude, just one more year, yeah, I can't fucking wait, I don't give a shit, just one more year, and I'll be done. Mind is on the fridge. Too much conversation. Aunts and acquaintances. Neighbours. Relatives. Sisters. Friends.

Can a man just not be allowed to make and have a fucking sandwich in peace?

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