A day log is a place to start. As good or bad as anywhere else. Friday, and it's raining cats and dogs out there.
After sleeping for only a couple of hours tonight I get up and make breakfast for me and my kid.
Darkness outside, darkness inside.
The bread is dry, and I can't find my toaster anywhere. I suppose it got sick and tired of being overheated every day, and just got up on its own two, three or four feet and made a run for it. I know I would have, if I had the chance.
We have cereals instead.
Going around in our own small circles, doing what a man and his kid usually do on an ordinary Friday morning in November. Get dressed. Eat. Brush our teeth. Thick jacket. Remember your scarf. And put those Wellingtons on! Have a nice day at school. See you in a week. And be nice to your mum, ok? Phrases and a big hug.
I wish I could go to some sunny beaches in Florida. Bali hadn't been bad either. Women, drinks, freedom. Dream on, you dumb fucker and get yourself to work.
Out in the pouring rain. The drops whip my cheeks and find their way inside my collar and my sleeves. New Orleans basin? Who cares? I can promise you that a swimsuit or wetsuit would be a quite proper outfit here today. Except if you'd wore a speedo or a bikini you would have frozen to death. It's so wet I expect to see Noah and his crew coming around to fetch me any minute. And you can probably get just as much fish here right now as Dubya got down there.
My wipers are running at full speed, the lights of passing cars all seem blurry through the windscreen. No parking close to the office. My grouchy look makes the receptionist quieter, only whispering her ordinary "good morning".
The day passes. It's just another day at the office. I write. Radio on. "Fix you" still highly ranked on the charts. Now people of the future will know that this bloke sitting on the top of the world had a rainy day and ate his dusty cornflakes. Yeah, right. I want to go home.
The leafless bushes swaying in the wind like seaweed in turbulent waters. The clock strikes. It's still raining. I bet my toaster's sitting somewhere, feet in white sand, drinking cold beer.
I want to be fixed. I start to swim.