Thirty-Three

So on my second week off all is good. The new Belle & Sebastian record is released which I buy from the friendly guy at Rough Trade West. Even the news is good; 33 Chilean miners successfully rescued months earlier than anticipated. I'm feeling relaxed and look at the tension around me in a bemused fashion; the cyclist arguing with the car driver, the girls playing truant shouting at the policemen that they don't understand, repeatedly, as they try and think up a plausible story. I'm sailing by on all this free time. And who's that over there? I could swear it's Richard Dawkins standing at the station, by those Christian posters, you know the ones, they say 'Do you believe in God?' then they have three options: Yes, no, maybe. Dawkins has a big black marker pen and is frantically putting a big tick in the 'no' box and stamping his foot, like Rumplestiltskin being told we all know his name.

I go to visit my sister who has a new daughter, brand new, two weeks old when I turn up. Beautiful. Then I go to my parents' house. It's funny going home, funny walking the streets, it's like in the Magician's Nephew when they go to the ruins of the city with all the people turned to stone. Something happened here only it was a long time ago, and all the people who made the town what it was have disappeared. Some of the buildings and streets have changed, some of the landmarks are still here, but they're full of other, unknown people. Mind you, if I ventured further than the distance between the station and my parents' house I might see someone from the old days.

The week back at work starts OK - whatever was I worried about? - but then it starts to decline. The news is bad, some fat cheeked fool announces the budget and the next thing you know Ian Duncan-Smith is on the television having a go at the Welsh. Telling them to get out of their town and to the job centre in Cardiff. Listen Duncan-Pillock, there is NOTHING written on those cards in the Job centre that could ever be called a job.

Then it's another early morning and I'm having trouble pushing the buttons through the button-holes on my shirt sleeves. Why does this stress me out so? Maybe I'll play truant, at least the police won't stop me.