a day, a free day, a day for an unwell awakening. The exhaustion of weeks of work will not let go. But there are other things to be done too.
At first it is dark, the alarm sounds.
Turn the stupid machine off.
Holiday.
Then it is growing grey, get up, dressing gown computer.
Then dizziness, unwellness.
It did not take long.
A few beers with the wife last night.
A few too many.
definitely.
Close the eyes and wish for unconsciousness.
Abscence.
No wish to know.
Black
Silence.
please.
No way, the son is there asking questions, the clocks were changed last night, time gained one hour.
So
back to bed, try.
sleep
This is awful, normally there would be a walk in the dark, people recognised but unknown, a bus, a swaying ride to the station.
A cafe, a table, ten minutes, then a train.
Forced functionality.
None of that today
just try to relax
try to make it a stream of unconsciousness.
better, and better for you not to be subjected to such ill feelings.
there is rain falling out of a grey sky on the other side of the double windows, those four interfaces between air and glass. They keep the cold out somewhat, a little bit the rain looks friendly outside, not the warm splashing of the summer rain, just the silent persistent autumnal drizzle with occasional downpour.
And it is easy to get up, to make coffee, there is no problem. Take a Christmas biscuit from a bowl left over from the sons's party.
Speculatius.
Sugary.
Then a stomach ache sets in, drowsiness and nausea.
So finish the coffee, to strong, the throat closes, tinnitus on the right as always.
Sunday disease
Stop trying to catch up on all of the things not done during the week on Sundays.
Back to bed, curl up untill the nauseous feeling abates.
Listen to the rain outside, now clattering on the window ledge.
Friday October 27
The railway station's lights sparkle in the dark, there are people there on their business walking this way and that way. They are silhouetted against the illuminated facade, a-lively place in the centre of the sleeping town. see all this from the window of the bus, as it navigates the junction at the railway station's entrance. A final turn into the bus station, it stops, and the doors open.
Hurry across the bus station grounds, over the kerbstones and onto the railway station forecourt. Say the usual 'Guten Morgen' to the man there, the man standing at the ashtray, just lighting his cigarette, with his rucksack and his pigtail. His hair is tied back in a small knot today.
Up the stairs and into the railway cafe. The woman in line tofore me buys two small bottles of cognac, the kind used to satisfy a need in the morning. Order the coffee, the italian woman, with the dark rimmed glasses is serving today. A black coffee, get a plastic lid, and into the waiting room. There, in the far corner. an old looking weak man, with very long grey hair around the bald crown of his freckled brown head, with an unkempt beard. He is surrounded by piles of plastic bags containing belongings. Something falls to the ground, makes a noise, and he bends to pick it up. He moves so slowly, every second seems to cause pain, he has no coordination, balance is difficult.
He sits there with his things, an orange bag around his neck.
Sit at the table, write notes.
The bald café man comes over to the buttering machine, he will now prepare to butter rolls. The work area is behind a glass barrier, allowing the customers to watch their rolls being prepared.
The man with the bags comes over, and stares at the food waiting for use and sale, all the rolls, the boxes of salad, the tomatoes in a heap.
Maybe he is hungry.
Time to go to the platform, there is a train to catch
