nothing happening


Some moaned at the way I cooked. Some moaned about my drinking. Others moaned about the way I spoke. They’ve moaned about many more things too and now I don’t recall who it was or what it was as I sit here on this sultry Surrey day having just arrived back from a dismal visit to a shop seemingly filled with mutants. I'm glad that there is no one here to moan that way right now. There are moments of loneliness but the peace of silent isolation is something that outshines that loneliness and causes it to fade into insignificant corners.
     The sun shines outside and it is warm but some man walking his dog just paused directly outside of my window and he was wearing boots, a jacket and a woolly hat. Insanity is everywhere. Inside I sip a beer and feel like the only sane person for miles. For the first time in months the heating is off and I am wearing a t-shirt and shorts. I think about yesterday and its incessant rain as we made our way through London and all of its miseries. Today there are others making the same journey and although the weather is better someone making that journey has messaged me to tell me there was a suicide and the lines are blocked. Thousands of people stuck on a train going nowhere and, as always, I am grateful to be at home, alone, with nothing happening.

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