Wake Up

Wake up. Rub my eyes. Open them. Where am I? Who am I? What day is it?

Slowly take in the room; the white Jonathan Adler vases above the armoire, the inlaid jewellery box on the chest of drawers, the French doors to the garden.

Ok. That must mean, I’m here, it’s me and it’s now.

Stretch a leg across the bed. Touch Jorge’s. Rub it. It’s warm. Inviting. He does the same back. In his sleep. Do this for a few seconds. Then reach down to the floor for my iPad. Bring it close to my face. Almost to my nose. Switch it on. Type, 'The Guardian'. Skim read. The Indy. Facebook. Jorge stirs. Switch it off. Quickly. Pretend to be asleep. He's awake. I feel it. But he’s still. Then he slowly eases himself out of bed. I carry on ‘sleeping.’ But feel guilty. So clear my throat and say, ‘Do y’want me to go to the shop?’

‘No, it’s ok.’

Watch him get dressed; mauve sweatshirt with the stain at the front, tracksuit bottoms with white stripes down the legs. He stares out the window. Grunts. Then ambles off to the kitchen.


Switch my iPad on again. New year. Same news. Government cuts, WikiLeaks, Elton’s baby. Back to Facebook. Mathew Stradling’s cock photo, an old Sebastian Horsley blog, a David Shenton cartoon. Hear Jorge opening kitchen cupboards. Look at my watch. Midday. Fuck! Snap iPad shut. Get up. Reach for tracksuit bottoms. Rip the arse as I step into them. Slip on trainers, my NYPD sweatshirt, the G-Star zip-up I bought ten years ago in a gloomy Oxford Street basement. Head for the bathroom.

Sit on the toilet. Look at the grouting around the bath that needs a good clean. Pick up the Isherwood Diaries (1939-1960) that've been in here for God knows how long. First page I turn to reads: "Am dissatisfied with the few pages I've written of my novel. It should be in diary form, as I originally intended - terse, abrupt, sometimes inconsequent. Not a smooth narrative." Think, that's how I'll write this note then.

Reach for loo roll. It's gone. Waddle toward the bathroom cupboard, tracksuit bottoms round my ankles. Almost fall over and headbutt the sink. Open cupboard. One roll left. The cheap emergency one. Reminding me of school toilet paper that could almost give you splinters.

Wipe arse. Flush. Stand. Wash hands. Glance in mirror. Grey hair. Grey face. The horror. Torn between thinking, ‘I don’t look too bad ,’ to, ‘You look like shit!’

Decide I will go to the corner shop afterall.

***

Stagger in like something from The Walking Dead. Indian assistant smiles sympathetically. Probably thinks I’m homeless. Wander aimlessly round the aisles. Organic, this. Sell By Date, that. Place the following in my basket: a carton of free-range eggs, ‘Two for the Price of One’ orange juices (is this a con?), waffles, lemon Gatorade, a stick of bread and too much comfort food. Basket loaded, head for checkout. The assistant scans the goods. While he's scanning I look at the scratch cards. ‘Win £40,000! Every Year for Life!’ Mentally calculate what I’d do with it. Think about all the money I’ve wasted over the years; holidays to the States, clothes I’ve hardly worn, the drugs. Viv Nicholson on HP. Assistant says, ‘Twenty three pounds and 56 pence.’ My weekly rent when I first moved to London.

‘Would you like any cash back?’

Yes. My twenty three pounds and 56 pence! But what comes out is, ‘No thanks.’

Neighbour of past eight years, whose name I still don’t know, walks in. Pretend I don’t see him. Stumble out.

***

Finish breakfast. Wash up. Hot water switches off halfway through scrubbing the frying pan. Must get it fixed. Jorge tells me he’s off to the gym. Toy with going with him, thinking of the chocolates, the trifles, the car-load of Christmas carbs. I’m 47. Do I fight back ‘Madonna style’ or let it all go? Decide to fight back tomorrow and stay home and write. I must write. Tell Jorge, ‘I’m going to stay home and write!’ He leaves instructions on what to do with the chicken once the 45 minute timer goes off. He leaves. What seems like seconds later the timer goes off. 45 minutes and all I’ve done is surf the net! I get up. Walk to the kitchen. Open the oven door. Turn the chicken over. Smother it in butter, the herbs he’s laid out. Re-set the timer and wash the grease off my hands with Fairy Liquid (lemon flavour), which, I note, is the same colour as my piss when I'm dehydrated.

Go back to my desk.

An hour later. Timer goes off again. Still haven’t written a thing. Think, ‘Clay! You will write this year! A new play. A book. Whatever! But you will write! And, you will get off Facebook!’

Log onto Facebook.