Fuck You, Thursday

Today my brain is a bastard cunt of a snorting, rearing horse, steaming and shitting and spitting its bit and point blank refusing to jump any of the quite reasonably low fences I have put before it. I’ve got deadlines coming out of my arse and all I can do is stare at the screen wearing the same uncomprehending gape that I normally reserve for watching Hollyoaks (for our overseas buddies, Hollyoaks is a witless and torturously long-running teen soap about a troupe of lacquered moon-calves running amok in a pretend town near Chester). There are lots of things I could be doing – I have curtains to sew and a bookshelf to fix after it collapsed under the weight of tacky thrillers and Fanny Cradock, and then there’s this filthy squat of a house that could do with either decontaminating or razing to the ground. Instead I am writing this, drawing succour as though from a last cigarette, before I lapse into the only state possible today, one of lying prone beneath the bed muttering “They shoot horses, don’t they?”