I think its the squirrels. I think they’re trying to drive me mad. Every day its another present, wrapped and left on the doorstep. Every day something different. Today, it’s a bottle of sauce. Yesterday it was a pint of milk. Always something different, but
I’m often asked how i deal with my demons. After all, I’ve got enough of them – the drink, the drugs, the women. The banks, I guess, given that the other three seem to involve spending money I don’t always – strictly speaking – have.
“Hi! It’s just me…” I click the message off again, but my finger hands over the button and I can’t force myself to move it, paralysed by her voice. It’s been a week now, and I still can’t get through it. I breathe, and tear
“It doesn’t matter what it actually is”, she leaned back in the chair, gesturing with the coffee cup. “It’s what it represents. It’s the past, a legacy moment. Something from the rear-view mirror. So why should we care?”