The Sunday paper gets you down. And that’s before you’ve even looked at it. Great slabs of doughy pages. Interspersed with glossies of glossy people who you never see or meet in this town.
Or would want to if they did.
A rugged man with a dark, handsome phone stuck like a leach to his fungal ear. Baby strapped to his chest. Leaves at his feet. Sunday man walking his pouch baby, conducting business in the woods on his day off because that’s what real men do and you should be aspiring to do the same.
You peel yellow yoke from you’re nice white shirt and spark another cigarette. Turn from the picture that inspires inadequacy and disquiet to read that Seasick Steve found quitting smoking ‘real easy.’ After his heart attack.
Your heart beats like a Chinook on a night-time recognisance raid over a war zone.
Then you read that the relatives of some of the people Orwell wrote about in The Road To Wigan Pier are doing quite nicely now. No more dirt, no more coal.
You roll the pages into crumpled balls. Light the fire with them – resolve to give no more thought to world affairs.