Lost Post # 3: Document Created 10th December 2006, 03.20am.

Rash Decisions.

I suddenly realise that I have been praying for a road accident. Probably involving fatalities.

I am on a bus. On my way to work.

Work that I do not enjoy. And as I have sagely informed my younger siblings:

‘You’re not meant to enjoy it. That’s why it’s called work.’

Wise words. I get off my bus and head toward the other bus stop that will provide me with safe passage to the glamorous trading estate that is home to my office. That I do not want to go to.

I have under my arm a folder thick with Important Work Documents.

I have been praying for people to die, purely so I do not have to go to my place of employ.

I think about my nineteen-month old Favourite Son. Except I don’t. I’m standing in the wind (and we get proper wind here) and the rain thinking about the feel of his skin. The smell of his hair. The feel of his toes. His stupid toothy grin when he finds something new in the world. Which is probably every day. The look of ABSOLUTE delight .

I look about me. There is a queue for my bus to hell.

They do not look happy. Suits. Raincoats. Ladies with umbrellas who know their hair is FUCKED before they even get there.

Miserable.

Something clicks in my head.

I toss the folder in the nearest bin. And go into the nearest coffee house. And order something quite pleasant. And watch. People. Who are in a hurry. Who are shitty and rude. I drink my coffee.

I read the paper, enjoy my stupidly named coffee and then get the next bus home.

I get home.

Tired Mam: I knew.

She is smiling.

Favourite Son: Daddy home.

It’s the first time he has put two words together. I roll on the carpet with him. He does not often see me at this hour of the day. He is giggling like a twat. As am I.

It will be a frugal Christmas.