I've run out of words to say how crap things are at the moment, and it's crap for everyone else too so it kind of feels self-indulgent. At least I'm relatively healthy, and employed, and have a roof. Not to be sneezed at, nor continuously dry-coughed at.
But things are pretty crap. Living and working in a 20 square metre studio, and seeing very few people, is doing my head in. I will soon resemble a badly hollowed Hallowe'en pumpkin.
Life seems to be going on (or not going on, or going off) elsewhere. I hear the woman across the hall's pealing laughter often. Somebody cleans the hallway at about 7am on a Tuesday morning, quite noisily. I've yet to peep and see who it is. Living nearest to the front door, I tend to take in parcels, for the company if nothing else. People slam the front door when they go out but I don't have the heart to be angry, because they are a presence. Well, an absent presence.
Everything is filtered through screens. Facebook and Instagram and Digital Spy Forums are little windows to live in. I'm also part of the Next Door neighbourhood platform but that can be less than comforting. It's actually a bit suburban gothic horror: a white worm found in tap water, tales of drug-dealing by the Co-op, screenshots of men in hoodies caught in back gardens.
Each weekend I promise myself I'll catch up on work so I don't start the week feeling lambent terror at how behind I am. Each weekend I never do. Perhaps this one will be different. (It won't be).
