An old episode of Poirot was on. I don’t know why I have such a fascination with television detective dramas, with all that murder and mayhem, passion and revenge. It’s a far cry from my own quiet half-life, whatever Mrs McNulty might have me believe.

But I guess that’s exactly the point. Both that and the need to make sense of things. Like the cryptic crossword, it’s a search for answers. If only I could apply those little grey cells to real life, too. The problem is: if I don’t quite know what the question is, how will I know when I’ve found the answer?

March

Thursday March 1st

Confession

Is there anything else I can help you with today? he asks,

and I consider telling him

about my awkwardness

in social situations,

and my inability

to form lasting relationships,

and my inadequacies

as a son and a father (not to mention as a lover),

and my lack

of Twitter followers,

and my fears

of an imminent nuclear attack,

and my failure

to adjust to most aspects of the modern world,

and I say, no,

there’s nothing else,

it was just about the Wi-Fi,

thanks very much.

While my internet connection appears no closer to resolution, my human connection to the customer-service team in New Delhi is growing stronger by the day. Today, it is with ‘Craig’ that I take part in that long-distance tango known as The Reconfiguration of the Router. We talk about our respective childhoods, the legacy of decolonisation, our favourite types of biscuit and our dreams which have become as dusty and cracked as the wicket at Ranchi cricket ground.

What we don’t really talk about is when my Wi-Fi will be back up and running.

Friday March 2nd

After so many weeks of humiliation, it looks like the Man at Number 29 is losing the will to carry on. His dressing-gowned pursuit of the bin lorry has turned from frantic dash to forlorn plod. Or it could be that his carpet slippers are simply not up to the early morning wet and greasy streets. His last-gasp hurl of bin bags bounced off the back of the truck and split open in the middle of the road as the truck tore off up the hill, whoops of laughter emanating from within.

In silence, I helped him clear up the detritus.

Later, I tried to write a poem using a metaphor that might somehow connect the contents of a bin bag to a more profound statement about the modern human condition but I threw it away because it was rubbish.

Saturday March 3rd

A Poem of Three Halves

At the end of the day,

when the final biro has run out,

he’s only gone and written

a poem of three halves.

With that cultured right hand,

he could rhyme on a sixpence

and the lad must be delighted

at his failure to keep a clean sheet.