Someone appears to have left me on standby. All day I have managed barely more than a sustained stare. When the house is quiet I can sometimes hear tunes in the silence, musical fetches, half-dreamt ghosts of song. I am waiting for the evening to come, boys and wine and regrettable jokes. In the meantime I am picking away the unfeasible amount of hair that has fallen from my head and gathered under the arms of my jumper. If I go bald, I will compensate myself by getting brass teeth.
My thoughts are on spin cycle, the usual concerns repeating themselves over and over, sea creatures and hoarders and the outer limits of gastronomy, murderous women and cavorting clowns. They once caught a catfish that had swallowed a catfish that had swallowed a catfish. When I was a little girl I was afraid of the river that flowed through the bottom of our valley, surrounded by a pubic tangle of trees. I was afraid of sturgeons and freshwater squid and most of all I was afraid of the black, sucking mouth of the culvert. I have always felt that the sound of water is a distraction, hiding the approach of whatever is behind you. Water whispers, it hides and it lies and it erodes its own banks. Water, insidious as women.
Pie for tea, filled with chicken, or a reasonable impersonation thereof. I would rather eat miniscule fishcakes in the shape of krill, bioluminescent squids served still flashing in a darkened room, crabs covered in gold leaf, potted dolphin spread on slivers of baleen, sugared sprats coated in Hundreds and Thousands, blue whale ribs in barbeque sauce, swordfish plucked from a stone, periwinkle chowder served in nautilus shells or at the very least a fishfinger sandwich.