smelly food

Saturday, I8th of May i 2019

awake, the bedroom is chilly

.

go to the bathroom, that is cold too.

Come back, look at the computer. There is no

real news, other than that

the Americans seem

to be getting used to being part of a dictatorship

of being party to having their country turn into

one.

The British seem stuck in the Clash, that

signature tune.

Last night's underwear is on the floor, along

with yesterday's socks. Put the whole lot into the

cardboard box, the one that contains the clothes that are to be washed.

Take the cover down from the little finger, the one that is at the centre of all the trouble

. The

bandage is discoloured again, the healing process is still on its way.

The weather outside is dear, the sky is blue. The coming week will have to bespent at home, there is too much danger

of injury.

The cat is claiming attention, rubbing her head against any kind of leg, she wants to be fed. Open a tin, put a spoonful of

smelly food upon her plate and close the opened tin with a film of plastic. Put the tin into the fridge.

Make yet another cup of coffee, ignore the strain in the chest, it will he muscular, nothing else.

The son's face is illuminated by the light from his computer screen.

. It is green by that light. He is perched on his chair, staring at things, adjusting things, fixing things.

The laughter of the tenant sounds from the street. She is chatting with her neighbors, with the neighbours. She has a loud, clear high laugh, that echos up and down the street. She runs her business downstairs, an accountant, and she held a party yesterday.

Her business is fifteen years old now.