She dropped a card off for my mum today. I found it when I got home. It seemed sweetly scented by her hand – probably just my imagination, but I continued to sniff it, standing there on the doorstep to my house.
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I needed a cup of coffee. The crushed, freeze-dried aroma as the boiling water hit the mug drew applause from the senses. Out on the street I spied a woman pushing a baby. My mind took a photo of that image, framed by the bay window. The woman was small and hunched slightly over the frame of the pram as if to shield or even sensor her child’s existence in this world. In this pose, she looked like my mother now. This thought made me cry so I invited the television to entertain me, rather than the outside world.
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I’ve just had my dinner. The memory of microwaved curry has impregnated the walls of my house, it seems. I settle back into a high-backed leather chair with a magazine I’d half-read. It covers new-technologies, gadgets, big boys toys, that sort of thing. The reek of chemicals clung to the page. Some people appreciate the nostalgia trip that inspires - of new school books and marker pens – but not I. It just makes me feel sick. The curry makes me burp and the rice is sitting heavy on my chest.
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I go to bed. The sheets are cold tonight, but I’ll soon warm them up. I sleep on either side of the bed, one night after the other. That way I’ll get maximum wear from the mattress. The bedsheets seem to stink of me. I might leave the lamp on tonight.
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