untilthe bottles onlydregs

two emptied botttles infront of me

so rubbage around    in the cubpoard

find 2stellas and some whiskers

drinkem down! like a drinky think

sing bomenhian raspberry

yes! I loveyou cat!

mommajustkilllledaman

gin

theres some

SCARABOUCHE!

gin

nothing

nothing really

matches

any way the windows

September

Saturday September 1st

A bell was clanging in my head. I attempted to open my eyes. The operation met with limited success.

I tried again. The clanging continued. It was coming from downstairs, I realised.

I crawled downstairs and opened the door. Dylan was there. With Sophie

‘Brian, we’ve been waiting outside for ages,’ she said.

‘I . . .’ My voice trailed off because I couldn’t think of any more words.

‘Can I come in for a few minutes? We need to talk.’

I made a vague invitational gesture and they came inside. I noticed them both appraising the empty bottles and cans strewn across the kitchen floor. Dylan went into the sitting room to stroke the cat while I stayed with Sophie in the kitchen and watched as she made tea.

She started talking about their plans. My mind wandered back and forth as she spoke but I heard the key words: America – January – Stuart. They were followed by vague reassurances about the future: Cheap flights – Holidays – Skype. But I’d almost stopped listening by that stage.

I hadn’t spoken a single word throughout. Sophie thought it best perhaps if Dylan didn’t stay with me today. She understood that this would be a shock for me. It was a lot to absorb in one go. She wondered whether it might be helpful for me to talk to somebody about my problems. A professional. She knew that I didn’t really like talking about things but, who knows, it might be of some use.

I continued to sit in silence, heard them leave.

Sunday September 2nd

This month’s book may have been The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde but it was The Pictures of Toby Salt that were foremost on display as I made my way around the bookshop. There were posters everywhere, advertising the launch of This Bridge No Hands Shall Cleave on Thursday.

I did my best to lock up the picture of his stupid face in the attic of my mind and focus on the rest of my shopping: Chatterton by Peter Ackroyd; Kidnapped by Robert Louis Stevenson; A Time to Kill by John Grisham; In Cold Blood by Truman Capote; Murder Most Vile: 18 Shocking True Crime Murder Cases; and, because it was on special offer at the till, The Little Book of Hugs.

Monday September 3rd

My unsuitability for employment knows no bounds; I am a jack of no trades and a master of none. The rejection letters keep flooding in. Four more today, including this one from the University of Oxford:

Re: Your Application for the Position of Oxford Professor of Poetry

Dear Brian,