It’s another Father’s Day and I sleep late. I feel I’m owed
it after a long working week following another - the bulk of which was spent in
a strange city in an unfamiliar apartment with colleagues I eventually dreamt
of murdering. But that is another story.
I have oven-chips for breakfast because I can and spend the
bulk of the day in my pyjamas for the same reason. I open the Father’s Day
cards that have arrived in the post on time in the first instance I can recall.
I drink tea and smoke cigarettes and stare out the window.
After finally dressing and going to the shops I re-read the story my daughter wrote.
And then finish reading the graphic novel I’d bought as a treat for myself
whilst hanging-out in the local comic book shops with my son and daughter to
feed their manga obsession when they visited only two weeks previously. The
memory makes me chuckle recalling their laughter when I tell them a story one
of my employers related to me about his language problems whilst living in Japan. But that
is another story.
I speak to sister on the phone and we tell each other stories before finishing the story I’m reading and think about the
novel I’ll almost certainly never begin.
Then I write this.