So it’s true, then.
Time really does accelerate as you enter the latter decades of your life. Standing here, on the other side of grief and trauma, I’m sucked deeper and faster into the mundane: a relentless flush down a very slick s-bend. Continue reading
Eventually, alcohol will kill you. Drink enough, for long enough, and you’ll die. It’s as simple as that. Continue reading
One sunny Sunday morning. Rosie and I are on our way back from the local bagel place, scoffing rye and sesame bagels as we walk. We’re sharing – taking turns taking bites out of each other’s bagels. We round the corner and make the descent down the steep and picturesque hill that leads us back to our flat. Continue reading
At night, I dream about it. It’s the first thing I think of when I wake up. I trudge through my day robotically, waiting for the moment when I can have it next, and when I do, I can’t stop myself from having more. Sometimes, I don’t make it through the whole day. When I sleep, I dream of it.
I’ve just finished reading Jeet Thayil’s Booker long-listed Narcopolis, a swooning tale of remorseless addiction in Bombay. It’s mesmerising, conjuring a world that is filthy, violent, elegant and human. Continue reading
The scene following a boiler explosion. source: hse.gov.uk
Ben comes round at noon to let the boiler man in. Rosie and I have been bathing with pots of boiling water for the last few days, since the tap hasn’t been offering up anything other than cold. I am therefore grateful that Ben has agreed to be at the flat given I am in meetings most of the day.
My work situation is deteriorating dramatically, with termination approaching and more and more of my long-time colleagues deciding to take voluntary redundancy rather than hang in and be re-deployed. I have my own pressing decisions to make, with my gut flipping first left and then right, as I try to steer towards the best option for Rosie and me. I leave the office with a storming head ache. Continue reading
It’s possible I never left it. This place that Plato has Socrates describe so cogently in his Republic.
This place with prisoners shackled to a cave wall from childhood, with no choice but to look straight ahead. To them, the shadows thrown by objects on the wall opposite are the only reality they know. Their world is one of blurred forms that leap, tower and shrink without warning.
And even if one prisoner was somehow freed and finally able to turn around, says Socrates: the flash of the fire would make it impossible for him to see the objects of which he had earlier seen the shadows. Continue reading