A Hendon Morning

I slept badly. It was those fish. I was aware all the time that they were there – watching me. They never sleep, fish. Have you noticed that? Plus, Myra’s cat, Perkins, was in and out the cat-flap all night. I almost got up once to close its catch – but I couldn’t be bothered.
Oh yes, and another thing: the airbed has a leak; a very slight leak, but I had a sinking feeling during the night, and this morning I was flat on the carpet. I can’t bear to think what this will do to my back!
During one of my snatches of sleep I had a dream: I was watching one of those huge mechanical digger things, knocking down a row of terraced houses. It moved in horrible jerky motions; it reminded me of a monstrous yellow Praying Mantis. It needed only a tap from that big steel bucket, and walls that had stood for a hundred years just crumbled. I felt saddened by the spectacle. As the outer wall came down, I could see a fireplace and fading flowered wallpaper. And I thought: these, once cosy, rooms have sheltered families: mothers, fathers, children, and now they are suddenly exposed to the prurient eyes of passing strangers. An act of defilement.

I wonder if a dream is ‘there’, waiting to be dreamt? Like a book waiting to be read? I don’t think so.

I open the curtains on a wet, and gloomy cul-de-sac. I hate cul-de-sacs – even posh ones. Well, especially posh ones. Backwaters, where stagnant emotions collect and putrefy beneath the smooth surface.

It’s nine o clock, and no one is stirring. Oh, I’ve just remembered: it’s Saturday. I hate Saturdays. Too many people cluttering up the streets, the parks, even canal towpaths. No, give me a weekday, any day of the week, when people are at their work, and not getting up to mischief.

Hello, I can hear a noise upstairs. I had better make a move for the lavatory. Actually they are pretty well of for lavatories in this house: there is an en suite in the master bedroom (currently the mistress’s bedroom), a bathroom on the first floor and a cloakroom down here.
This is just as well, because I need some private time in the morning to conduct my ablutions. I am not one of these ‘On, plop, off’ people. I like to take my time: I have great respect for my bowels.

So, I will give the cloakroom bog a go. Just check I’ve got everything: pen, diary… oh no! It got incinerated in the tube station debacle. And a diary is so important to me: I have to think of future biographers. I will go to Woolworth’s, this morning and purchase a notebook. It’s no good trying to write on bog roll: that soft ‘luxury’ paper makes the ink go all fuzzy, and the shiny stuff… well your pen just skids off it.

Footsteps on the stairs! I’m off.