I Was Thinking This Morning

I feel nervous. This is not normal: I’m not claustrophobic or agoraphobic – there is nothing in my world to be worried about. That coursework will be done by the deadline despite my watching Valkyrie instead of writing those essay questions; the bus will let me off at the right stop. We career around the bend, I put away my book and gather my stuff. I don’t like being elevated on the bus because you can see things you shouldn’t be seeing; old people’s scalps, which bit of the Metro the other passengers are looking at, the cheap pulp fiction one of them is reading. Old people are always on buses. I think they must ride around all day and never get off, they just sit there and have conversations that consist of opening lines like “I haven’t seen you since the war!” or “there are an awful lot of pigeons about nowadays”.

I forget about the nerves because an agonising pain shoots up my right leg when I move it. Where did that come from? I didn’t bang it on a pole or a chair, but it feels like somone stamped on the inside of my kneecaps repeatedly. Christ that hurts! I’ve got to walk it off like a footballer. Or maybe not like a footballer, because when they get injured someone pays them ten grand. Maybe someone will just run up in the street and hand me a brown envelope filled with illicit cash? Could happen. Watch that car, it’s going to run me over if I don’t run out of its way. That driver looked determined to kill everyone who wanted to cross the road, maybe one of the guys on my flank egged his house or kidnapped his wife. Maybe he’s John McClane, and those two are East-European terrorists. Maybe he’s just a bad driver.

I want coffee, but I can’t go into the café. I’m still infected with cash-flow deficiency disease. That girl has coffee. I bet she’s rich. I bet she swims in a golden pool of molten pound coins every night, and then sells videos of it online to middle-aged sweaty men in Wolverhampton. I have too much to carry. Why does my english teacher want us to all bring A4 folders to every class? Is he a miniature dictator, and this is a premature totalitarian decree? This might be just the start of his coup – today, Stockport, tomorrow, the world! I bet he has those Warhammer models in his attic. I bet he plays with them every night to escape from the world, and makes explosion noises with his lips. Maybe I should write this all down and someone from a cool newspaper might read it and put it on their website and pays me £1000. I could do anything with £1000; first I’d buy some more shirts, then I’d buy some more socks. I always have holes in my socks nowadays.