The flowers were rusting on the trees. Grey leaves simpered in the leaden breeze. The cold got between the layers of Frank's clothes. He looked out the window. Wished he hadn't. Started to turn away when two men in prison blue shirts with iron bar ties patrolled by. They looked at him looking at them through the window and wishing he hadn't.
Meanwhile, the cat lay spread out like a colour supplement on the coffee-table. The cat was stoned out of its mind.
Frank dragged an armchair across to the TV. The wooden wheels neighed like a stallion as the chair roamed over the prairies of the living room floor. Then the doorbell did exactly what Frank didn't want it to do. It was startling. The last time it rang was when the neighbour had just heard that Princess Diana had died and there'd been no-one more convenient to tell.
In this way, Monday morning was finished. It felt like a doctor's waiting room.