The book I'm never going to write

Friday evening, half past seven.

I could see myself reflected in the windows of the tube train as it went past. It was a dishevelled face that looked back at me: long hair wet from the rain, no make up (nothing new there) and a sour expression.

The tube slowed, and stopped. There are benefits to heading home later in the evening, and not having to press through a mass of commuting city types is the main one. Never mind that I’m essentially one of them, I don’t count. I’m sure they all think that.

Once on the train I sit by the window, and spend the journey watching the rain run down the windows…this far out of town the tube doesn’t even go underground.

I go home to an empty house. Toast for tea.


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