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I’m home, home alone, although that’s my business, not Ray Lennox’s or any cunt else’s. I’ve got a large slice of gala pie for my tea. I put it into the microwave and watch the movie I got from Hector. Two hoors are having a good licking and frigging session and the black studs are just about to come and join them . . . no . . . I switch it off. I don’t want any black studs. I put on another tape featuring two lesbians and a milkman.
    I bite into the gala pie and my teeth ache and send a spasm through my body. The fuckin thing’s still frozen in the middle. I eat it anyway. The video is okay but I start to feel uneasy as a fluttering rises and intensifies in my chest. The room looks gaudy with too many rough edges. I go to the kitchen and pour out a large measure of reassuring whisky. I take the bottle with me into the front room. Another glass and the unease passes. I’m not thinking about work. I’m here, at home.
    I stay up and sleep in the rocking chair after having had a few nippy sweeties. I’m half-dozing and half-awake, thinking of Carole. She’ll be back soon. She knows what side her bread’s buttered on.
    After a while my guts really begin to ache badly and I’m sweating. I sit writhing in the chair as it rocks in a sickening rhythm but I can’t go to bed, not until it gets light. I think I’m going to throw up. I keep it down, trying to breathe in slowly. The thick, stagnant alcohol sweat. My fuckin guts. It’ll be from that gala pie. I’ve a good mind to report the deli spastics to the environmental health, no that those fuckers are any use.
    After a bit it thankfully eases off as sleep takes me away.
     
    with my guts rumbling away. It’s darkness and I’m in bed. I don’t remember going to bed. This is unusual for me. I sense the space beside me and I grab at her dressing gown and hold it tightly. It still has her smell. I’d let it go in the night and I had the bad dreams as a result. I’ve also been inadvertently clawing at my balls because they are nipping something terrible.
    My head feels broken and weak, like it’s been smashed open and its contents spilt all over the pillow. Despite this, the tendons of my neck feel yanked to their tensile limit, seemingly unable to support its dead weight. The first sunlight is filtering insipidly through the blinds making the room look washed out and blurry.
    With some effort, I get up and wash and go to have a close shave but I’ve ran out of blades and scratch the worn one over my face. I decide against the car and head for the bus stop with a strange mixture of liberation and despair, realising that it’s only ten-twenty a.m. and I’ve already decided I’m going to be out drinking tonight.
    My stomach is still upset and the stink of bodies on the bus seems overpowering. Too many schemies. Can they not have a bus which runs from Colinton into the city centre without having to pass through Oxgangs? When I alight a jakey holds out a hopeful grubby hand. I shake it and tell the cunt that Jesus loves him. He looks bemused as I move away and I’m doon the road by the time the growls start. If it wasn’t coming up to the season of goodwill I’d’ve gone back and had the cunt pinched.
    I go to the newsagent and buy a Sun . I also look at the pornographic magazines on the top shelf. I make no apologies for this; the job is one in which it’s dangerous to think too much, so the best thing is to channel your energy into something that’s the easiest to think about but which does you no harm. For most of us sex fits the bill nicely.
    I leave without making another purchase however, and I’m upset at the cheerfulness of the shopkeeper. – The Sun , he shouts loudly, – very good, thirty pence.
    This disgusts me as I’m not like the rest of the festering plebs who read the Sun . I’m more like somebody who writes the thing, edits it even. Know the difference, you pleb, always know the fuckin difference.
    The last thing I need first thing