Door to office: thirteen minutes fifty-three. Mistimed it on the dry run yesterday. Not sure how. Thought I was meticulous.

When I eventually got there, I stood outside for a moment. Took it all in and nodded to myself. It’s not quite the Shard, but fine enough. I can work with this.

Reception was straightforward. Walked straight towards it. Stated my name with a bit of swagger. She looked me over, handed me a lanyard and repeated my name wrong. Whatever. I had literally just said it out loud. To her face. Whatever.

My desk was fine. Decent setup. Modern, new. I don’t trust wireless keyboards, though. The monitor was too high, an easy fix. LG 4K, solid. But the chair back was the wrong angle. I couldn’t get it right. It was one of those ones that was either static or moving. No clicks. You have to hold the lever, get into a position you like, release it, and hope it’s right. Kept fiddling at it all day. I think it’s fine now. Will see. Not sure if I have a chair budget.

The walk home took twelve minutes forty. Faster, but I can get this under ten. All depends on that crossing.

Glad I went to get the Bic four-way last night. The red took a battering. What’s the point of the green? And the blue? Should I have bought four red pens? I suppose the black one is useful for passport applications.

Was just about to make dinner. But there’s a new kebab shop over the way. Maybe I’ll treat myself. Check them out.

Jolon. Jolon. Is it so hard to say? I’ll correct her on Monday.

previous: 114. A Friday Start?

It wasn’t supposed to █████████████████.

█████████████████████████████████████████.

██████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████.

Anyway. It’s all sorted now.

Start the new gig tomorrow. I’m not nervous, don’t think so. But it’s been a while. Probably a bit rusty.

Sitting here re-reading the handbook (what a load of bollocks) with a large glass of Rioja. The good stuff.

Friday is an odd day to start a new job. Wonder why they picked that. Doesn’t matter.

Planned the walk to the office earlier. I reckon it will be eleven minutes, as long as it’s not raining. Maybe twelve. Ironed my suit when I got back. Put my shoes by the door.

Need to remember to take a pen. Might nip out and get one of those four-colour Bic ones. Like a fucking boss. The red always goes first.

next: 115. First Day Reflections

previous: 74. Vindication in Pastry

*Trust me, that’s a massive potato.

next: 114: A Friday Start?

previous: 73. Dum. De de dum. De de dum.

Woke up on the beach again. Needed water. Maybe a few snacks. So I headed to the █████. I love foreign supermarkets. They’re familiar, but somehow wrong.

When I got to the entrance, an old bloke caught my eye. He was walking towards me, on the other side of the glass doors. We both adjusted our steps at the same time, staring at each other while we tried to avoid each other. Left. Right. A shuffle. A little giggle. That polite dance people do.

We made eye contact. Stepped in the same direction again. Irritating. I decided I hated him. Everything about him was off. Grim. Could see him trying to decide where to go next, as if the choice mattered.

He stopped moving, so I stayed still. Watching. He held up a hand at me. In warning? I think he was pleading with me to get out of the way. I’d had enough. It was too hot for this shit. I was about to say something. Shout at him, this fucking loser in my way. Then the doors slid open, and he was gone.

Bought a Snickers. Tastes the same as back home.

next: 74. Vindication in Pastry

previous: 72. Seasons Greetings from █████████

Didn’t plan a grand disappearance or anything dramatic. Woke up one morning and decided to go.

Ended up by the coast, in █████████. The days have a habit of disappearing on me. I kept meaning to write. Update the diary. Say hello.

But then I find myself wandering down the promenade, watching the sun’s dance on the sea.

There’s a shop near the front that sells cold wine for three █████ a bottle. Red, white, whatever. All screw top. I’ve been working my way through the lot with keen professionalism.

Haven’t heard a single bark since I got here. Not one. Keep humming that old song my Mum used to sing while doing the dishes, “If you’re fond of sand dunes and salty air…”

Anyway. I’m fine. Better than fine. I am. Just needed some distance.

Promise I’ll write more soon. Warm regards from █████████.

next: 73. Dum. De de dum. De de dum.

previous: -18. The Gloaming

I didn’t know then that was the day my life would truly begin.

Woke with a start. What did I do? I had the fear. And the guilt. Something dreadful had happened. The brain hadn’t caught up yet, but my soul knew trouble had occurred.

Did I even want to remember? Reached for the vodka on the bedside table with a tragic decisiveness. Admitted I had to surrender to a narrative larger than myself—Twilight. I’d watched it when I got home from the Obsidian Room.

The first mouthful was not pleasant, it was fucking great. A medicinal slap in the face with a hug for pudding. When you are committed to heartbreak, you have to do it properly. Otherwise, it’s just a man drinking before breakfast.

Still in the night before’s clothes, I reached for my phone. Got a whiff of my pits as I did. Fucking Jesus Christ. Told myself I would shower later. (I didn’t). 27 messages. First one was something angry from Simon. What a bellend. Swiped them all away with one eye closed.

Asked Spotify to play some music. It started a list called Deep Focus, but the first “song” was a man whispering his feelings about a river, and fuck that bollocks. So I lay in silence, which was just as loud and more annoying. My phone was in my eyeline, begging me to look at it. I threw it against the wall and rolled over. Dignified.

Didn’t know what to do. Nothing I did felt correct. Thought about going out. But the neighbour’s dog was barking in a way that felt personal. Blah, blah, blah. We’ve done the dog thing.

I looked up at the skylight. Have I mentioned that before? Yeah, I’ve got a skylight. The rain was lashing down. Not the pathetic nonsense that wets pavements apologetically, but a world-wobbler of a downpour. I don’t really like the rain. Any cold, wet thing, I don’t really like.

My choice was easy: Lie there forever, vegetative. October, November, December, January. But eventually my back started hurting, so I went to stare out the window. Cars travelled by at a mournful pace, and a woman holding an umbrella made me think of Jadyn holding an umbrella.

Get a grip, Jolon. Maybe a coffee will help? Made it to the kitchen and put the shitty kettle on. Then, in a moment of clarity, went back to grab my vodka and phone. Time to look at the messages. They were all from fucking Simon. The first one said, “You don’t belong in my world,” so I deleted the rest without reading. Prick.

Scrolled to my chat with Jadyn. Stared without tapping, reread the last few weeks of texts. And again. Considered writing “hey”, then heroically closed WhatsApp and put the phone down.

Bottle in hand, I went to practise my distraught face in the window. I found something handsome and tragic enough. “Come on, Team Jolon,” I said to the vodka microphone. “Let’s see what rock bottom wants from us today.”

Afternoon turned into who gives a twat? The bottle started talking to me around the gloaming. It had opinions, and I listened. I thought about Jadyn. “You don’t… Want me?”

Cracked open another bottle and went back to bed to really wallow in it. Tried not to think about the Romans. Then, just as I was considering death, a vibration. She was calling. Me! Everything was tingling and sparkly. Even my nethers, which hadn’t so much as managed to squeeze out a piss all day.

I let it ring once, because that’s what champions do, and I answered in a tone that suggested I was neither surprised nor fucking hammered.

“Alright,” I slurred.

Her breath, that hum I could conduct my life to. Then, the words I’ve mulled over a thousand times since: “Jolon. I want to see you.”

There it was. The lion fell in love with the lamb. “Of course,” I said, in a register I’m sure sounded casual. “Anytime. Anywhere. What are you doing tomorrow?”

We arranged a plan. We talked. And when the line went quiet, the silence was not empty. It was crowded with a thousand interpretations, each of which had me as the main character.

I drank what was left in the bottle as I ruminated. I was certain now that no measure of time with her would be long enough, but we’d start with forever. Then I fell asleep to dreams of baseball in the snow.

next: 72. Seasons Greetings from █████████

previous: 66. Hello Again

Been a long while since I wrote, I know. Not had a great deal to say. Apologies to the three people who read this shit.

Work’s been acceptable. Got into a solid rhythm now: Check emails, attend meetings, Boots meal deal for lunch, do actual work in the afternoon. Walk home (unless it’s pissing it down).

Didn’t want to bore you with it. Nobody needs another round of me staring at the fucking ceiling. Not been drinking. Not much, anyway. Until last night.

Had a long and brutal day of target forecasting, so texted Warwick to see if he was also in need of a cheeky beer after work.

He replied straight away: “Yes, I’m.”

Can you use a contraction there? Still trying to decide whether it’s technically allowed. You can’t end on “I’m.” Can you? Maybe context does the heavy lifting. “Yes, I’m” is shorthand for “Yes, I’m in need of a bevvie”.

Still looks wrong. A sentence that fell asleep halfway through itself. I thought about correcting him, but decided against it. We’re mates, not proofreaders.

We met at The King. I had a couple before he arrived. When he turned up, he looked tired but pleased to see me. We talked about work, football, and the news. Something about the trains. Nothing serious.

Between the second and third argument about crisps, he asked if I’d noticed those missing-dog posters around the flats. I said I had. Little white dog with the pink bow. Princess. Gorgeous.

“Sad, isn’t it?” he said.

I agreed. “Hope they find it. I love dogs, and I can prove it. Ready Salted is underrated.”

That shut him up, for a second. “Ready Salted isn’t a flavour. It’s a default setting,” he said. Absolute nonsense. We nearly came to blows over pickled onion Monster Munch. Beef is the better flavour, and I will die on that hill.

About four pints in, I mentioned I’d booked a holiday. A proper one, abroad. Cheap flight, a bit of sun, somewhere with a beach, and no emails.

He frowned. Said it was bad timing. I asked what he meant.

“You know how it is. Best not to disappear just now.”

I told him that was precisely why I needed a break. Fresh air, vitamin D, maybe a fling with a foreign barmaid. Nudge, nudge.

He didn’t laugh. Suggested we do a day trip instead. To Skegness! What the fuck. I said that sounded shit, but he reckoned it could do us both good. Will think about it. But I’m not paddling in the sea in fucking November.

We had another few. I stopped counting, but at some point, we ended up in a strip club. Must have been his idea, not usually my thing. It was grim. Smelt of bleach and regret.

The dancer had an unusual proposition. Said for a tenner, she’d stick a finger up her bum, for twenty she’d stick it up mine. It was the final offer I found most appealing: For thirty, she’d leave both bums alone.

I thought it was hilarious, but Warwick was stoic. He said he’d had enough and we should call it a night. I paid the tab, gave her the twenty quid.

He didn’t hang around outside, said “We’ll talk soon,” before shutting himself in a taxi. Sounded like one of my old teachers giving me a detention. He’s weird sometimes.

Decided to walk home, picked up a takeaway en route. Didn’t want to ruin my jeans with kebab juice, so kept it for when I got in. But then I passed out before eating it. It’s still in the wrapper on the counter, going to microwave it for breakfast.

Working from home today. Laptop’s open on the kitchen table. Outlook already pinged twice to remind me about the team stand-up at ten. Definitely a camera-off day. But I’ll smile anyway, because you can hear it.

I don’t think you can end a sentence with a contraction. That’s why it feels wrong.

Looked up the holiday booking this morning. Seven nights, breakfast included, near the beach. Warwick called it running away, but everyone needs something to look forward to.

I told Warwick I’d cancel it, but I haven’t.

That’s a contraction at the end of a sentence. That’s OK. Isn’t it?

It’s raining out. Looks cold. And someone’s stuck another missing-dog poster on the lamppost opposite. Starting to curl at the edges from the damp. Same photo, same pink bow.

Can’t deny it’s quieter here now, though. Peaceful.

Will spend the morning half-working, half-recovering. Might even run the hoover round later. There’s something to be said about hangovers when you’re working from home. No commute, no small talk. Just a laptop and the slow erosion of willpower.

Warwick said he’d text about the Skegness idea. Maybe he’s right. Sea air, slot machines, fish and chips, a day where nothing significant happens. Might even give me something to write about.

I’ll deal with that later. For now, I’ll eat my kebab, open Teams, nod in the right places, and pretend everything’s completely normal.

Because it is. Mostly.

next: -18. The Gloaming

previous: 65. Warwick’s Oopart

Work gave me a day off yesterday. Said it was because I’m doing so well. They’d put a picture of me up in the lobby. Thumbs up. One word underneath: Success.

Gave me a chance to go to The King. Find Hugh. See if I can help him. He’s been on my mind for weeks.

Picked up a Ginsters Buffet Bar from the 24-hour BP garage on the way.

Got there just after eleven. Same smell as always. Ordered a red and asked if Hugh had been in.

Barman shook his head.

“Who the fuck is Hugh?”

Silly bollocks. Decided to wait. Picked a table by the window and ran through the script again. Keep it simple. Tell him I’m concerned. That I miss him. I can help him.

Finished my glass. Ordered another.

Did we argue? Fall out? Don’t remember. Doubt it. About what?

Ordered another.

Sat there long enough to watch an old couple come in, drink, laugh, argue over the jukebox, and leave.

Could’ve saved them the drama. They both still like shit music.

No sign of Hugh. Ordered another. Probably for the best. He might not want my help. They get like that, don’t they? The lost and losing.

Ordered another. Waited a bit longer.

Hugh didn’t show. Hope that means he’s sorted himself out.

Saw Warwick on the way home, said he’d been to see the footy. Asked him if he wanted a nightcap. He seemed keen, so we headed back to mine.

After a couple of turbo shandies on the deckchairs, he told a wild story about the game. Made him tell it again so I could write it down. He disappeared for a piss as I was scribbling. Realised he’d taken too long, so I got up to find him.

He was in the kitchen, fucking around by the bin cupboard. Said he was admiring my Winia dishwasher. Asked me about the annual consumption. Told him: 261 kWh, 3360 L water. Drying class A.

He whistled. Rightly so. Panic over.

We had a few more drinks back in the living room, watched some old 80s TV adverts on YouTube. Then he left.

Didn’t like him poking around the bin cupboard like that. Went to look at the damage. At the hole. It stared into me. Screaming. About the size of a decent pork pie.

Kicked the bin away and pulled at the plaster till I could reach in and grab the hammer behind it. Still there. Still magnificent. Still feels powerful.

next: 65. Warwick’s Oopart

previous: 63. Sober and Cold with Misery

“Do you remember things out of order, Jolon?”

That was the first thing he said. When I caught him hovering around my front door again.

“Hello, Warwick.”

“Can I come in?” He asked.

I considered it a moment. It was late, and I was supposed to drive to Skegness the next morning. But why not?

“Sure. Sorry about the door. Need to fix that.”

Led him to the kitchen. Poured myself a large Rioja. Offered him one, but he only wanted water. Pussy.

Turned around with the glasses, caught him looking at my dishwasher.

“Is that a WINIA WVW-13A1ESI?” He cooed.

“Best one on the market,” I replied.

He looked it up and down a few times, clearly very impressed. Some people just get it. But come on, it’s only a fucking dishwasher, so I coughed politely to prompt him to carry on with his story.

“Rotherham three, Oldham two,” he spluttered, eyes still on the chrome finish. “A great match, but something strange happened.”

I ushered him into the living room, away from the kitchen. Spun round (didn’t spill a drop) and faced him. Eye-to-eye.

“Tell me.”

He gestured for me to sit down. Bit off, in my own gaff. But I did as I was prompted. Both settled, he started his story.

“I was in my seat, behind the goal. Had a couple of pints pre-game. First one was fine. Cold enough. Second went flat halfway down.”

“Wrong, but not weird,” I joked.

We both laughed. Him a bit too much.

“Then my phone started to buzz. I was about to dig it out my pocket when Oldham scored. First minute. Fuckers.”

If we’re having a minute-by-minute play through, thought I’d best go and get the bottle.

Before I sat back down and topped up, he carried on. “Then I checked my phone. It was a goal alert.”

Luke Hannant 1’.

“So what?” I said, waiting for more.

He looked up at me, confused. “There was no other notification on my phone. Only this one. It came through before Oldham scored! Dismissed it at first. Must have imagined it.”

“It happens,” I said.

“Yeah. But half an hour later, it happened again. Buzz.” He mimed the buzz.

Reagan Ogle 36’.

“Rotherham were back in the game. Didn’t look like conceding again. But sure enough, 36th minute, Ogle made it 2-0 to Oldham.”

I whistled and took a gulp of wine.

He shrugged. “I had a couple more pints at halftime. Decided I must be remembering it wrong. Probably from the booze.”

“The mind is a tricky place to hang out in,” I said. “Especially with booze.”

“Very wise, Jolon! You’re really smart!”

I agreed. Was about to say something, but Warwick clicked his fingers and carried on speaking.

“Back in my seat, the second half had just started. And it only bloody well happened again.”

52’ – Kian Spence.

“Oldham had a throw-in at the time, deep inside their own half. The pitch was calm. No danger anywhere near the box. Then, out of nowhere, Kian Spence smashed one in. 2-1.”

I poured myself another wine.

“What do you think of that, Jolon?”

“Did you go and look for the bookies?” I replied. Cool.

He chuckled. “I spent most of the second half looking at my phone, waiting for it to ping again. I was beginning to think it was all some weird daydream, when...”

87’ – Jake Leake (OG).

He shook his head. “You know what, I think I will have that wine.”

I went to grab another glass. And another bottle.

“I’m not as quick as you. That’s when I started wondering if I had time for a bet. Was about to get up. Find the Ladbrokes stall, when...”

90+1’ – Reece James.

FT: Rotherham 3–2 Oldham.

“The lads were still celebrating the equaliser at the time.”

“Sounds like a good game,” I offered.

He nodded. “Amazing comeback and last-minute win. But I couldn’t join in with the reverie. Just sat there staring at my phone till the stadium was empty.”

He leaned back, took a big swig of wine, and gave me his familiar crooked smile. Then he looked me right in the eye, like a god damn sniper.

“I’ve seen your diary online.”

Fucking hell. That took a turn. Caught me right off guard.

“It’s really good. Fantastic. You’re a brilliant writer.”

I bowed my head. Humble. Where is this going?

“Has anything like that ever happened to you, Jolon? Ever got a message out of order?”

OK. I said no. Told him I try not to write about real things anymore. And I don’t much care for football.

He laughed, but I wasn’t joking.

“Not just about football. More in general. Does it ever seem like things happen in the wrong order? Or they change? Do you ever feel like you’ve done something before you did it?”

I told him everyone feels like that sometimes. But he didn’t believe me. I could tell.

“It must be strange, keeping a diary when time keeps moving sideways.”

I asked what he meant.

“When did you stop writing about real things?”

Didn’t have an answer for that. How would I know?

Poured us both another large glass. We sat there, facing forward. Don’t think we spoke again till the bottle was done.

“Right, time to go.”

With that, Warwick stood up, patted my shoulder, and left.

I didn’t get up. What the fuck?

next: 66. Hello Again

previous: 64. Who the Fuck is Hugh?

Didn’t drink last night. Not like me on a Friday. But I didn’t need to. Had a great week.

Went straight home after work. Hoped to get an early night, but Warwick was at my door when I got back.

Told him I donate money to a dog rescue charity every month. Because I love dogs. Then I thought about all the suffering in the world, and it made me cry. So caring. He could tell.

He asked me to go over to his place. Didn’t really fancy it, but he insisted. Wanted to know about Skegness.

Ended up staying over. Just got back, pretty tired. Bed was awful. Room was sparse. But I found an old poetry book.

Reckon I could write good poetry. Got the brain for it.

previous: 62. She Would Have Loved My Meal Deal

Woke at 8:12. Listened to the silence.

Got to work late. Logged in. A motivational GIF had been pasted into the middle of my quarterly target spreadsheet.

The boss clocked me from across the room, started walking over. I pretended not to notice. He asked how things were going with the project.

I said, “Great!” which sounded like something I would say this time.

He didn’t react. He knows I’ve got this.

Need to buckle down and get things moving, though. Skipped lunch. No Boot’s meal deal today.

Shame, the cashier likes me. Always chatty.

next: 63. Sober and Cold with Misery

previous: 61. Just a Bit of Fucking Fun. Ha! Ha!

Took a sickie today. Went for a run this morning. Cleared my head. Felt my heart. Then took a deck of cards to the pub.

A few regulars were there already. I nodded and held up the cards.

“Let’s try this again!” I said. “Easy to learn. Quiet. Tactical.”

One of them grunted. Another shrugged. But we dragged two tables together and played again.

I lost the first round on purpose.

Second round, I played a weather card perfectly. Showed them how it’s done.

Laughed in their dumb fucking faces. They’ll never grasp it. I was rinsing them, game after game.

By the fifth round, I was getting annoyed with the idiots.

“It’s a slow-burn game. You’ve got to let it breathe. You’re playing too fast. Use the weather cards! Think!”

Sixth round, another win. They were playing it wrong. It’s not just a cheap flush game. There’s strategy. Depth. But they didn’t get it.

Seventh round, I won again. Morons.

They cried. Sloppy Ben called it “too clever for normal people.” Some other old soak said he wanted to play Snap.

I laughed at them.

They bought me a pint as a thank you. I took it. Earned it. Deserved it.

Went to the corner table and opened my phone. No calls. No emails. Could hear them all whispering about me. In awe. Wish Warwick had seen this.

Stayed for a few more drinks.

On the walk home, I watched my feet. Wondered if Sloppy Ben is happy with how his life turned out. Doubt it.

next: 62. She Would Have Loved My Meal Deal

previous: 60. A Formal No Big Deal

Got to work early again. Didn’t stop for a coffee en route.

10:12, boss appeared beside my desk, “Can we chat when you’ve got a moment?”

“Absolutely. I’m free right now?”

He pointed to his office, then walked off. I followed him in. He closed the door.

“That report you sent over was excellent. Really sharp thinking.”

I said, “Thanks, glad it was what you were looking for.”

He chuckled politely, like I’d told a joke.

“It’s more than that, you’re incredible. A superstar. We’ve got a new project kicking off, and I think you’d be the perfect person to lead it. Interested?”

Poker face. Told him I’d be happy to have a look.

He sat back and looked at his screen. Clicked his mouse with force.

Is that good or bad? He stood quickly. I followed. Then we shook hands like we’d agreed on something.

“One last thing. What happened on Friday?”

Poker face. Told him I had a little cold. Nothing serious.

“All better now?”

“Fighting fit!” I did a little shadow punch and Ali shuffle.

“Good stuff. Just let someone know next time.”

Back at my desk, a calendar invite pinged into my inbox: “Project Awesome Lead: Jolon Fairweather.”

Reread it. And again. Replied to accept formally.

Went to get that coffee.

—

When I got home, I didn’t turn on the lights right away. The flat was unchanged. I wasn’t.

It’s no big deal, I know. Still got into bed with my shoes on.

next: 61. Just a Bit of Fucking Fun. Ha! Ha!

previous: 59. What a Load of Bollocks

Fell off the wagon. Had a drink. To forget. Am Bollocksed.

Bollocks. We really love bollocks in Britain. Especially the dog's bollocks.

Saw Warwick earlier. He was talking bollocks. Kept asking me about a dog. Silly bollocks.

Sacked him off and went for breakfast at Wetherspoons. Sppoooonss. Home now. Should let him know.

Bollocks. I've dropped a bollock. I'm bollocksed. Left my phone in the bollocking pub. Should be online this morning. Will get a bollocking from work.

It's not too cold out. Won't freeze my bollocks off. Especially as I'm bollock naked.

Need to stop writing bollocks. Get off my bollocks and go get it. Really can't be bollocksed though.

Bollocks to it. Having another wine first. Got some nice Rioja in. It's the bollocks.

Jadyn was the bollocks.

That whole thing was a kick in the bollocks.

I miss her.

One drink. Then I'll grow some bollocks. Put my clothes back on and get the phone.

Will I, though? Will I bollocks. I know I'm finishing this bottle. Shush, shush with your bollocks. Someone will have nicked it by now anyway.

Had a good week till yesterday. Work was going well.

Bollocks. It was shit.

next: 60. A Formal No Big Deal

previous: 58. Ping Pong Champion

Won a table tennis tournament at work this morning. The intern couldn't enter. Too busy with a big pile of copying.

Meeting with Warwick later. It's been a year since the thing. He’s a good listener. Maybe it’s time to talk about it.

next: 59. What a Load of Bollocks

previous: -19. Obsidian Disorder

She’d picked the Obsidian Room. Said it was one of her favourites.

I made myself look perfect for it. For her. Polished my brown Crockett & Jones shoes till they sparkled. Wore my blue Brioni suit and white Turnbull & Asser shirt. I was ready. For her.

Got there early so I could watch her arrive. Picked a table with a view of the door. Pretended to read the menu, but I couldn’t concentrate. Butterflies swarmed every time the door opened.

Then my stomach dropped. The universe wobbled. For a second (an hour?), I heard only pulse in my ears.

She’d arrived.

The waiter hesitated, caught off guard. Hadn’t expected someone like her to walk in. Everyone could see his butterflies. Pathetic. He pulled out a chair, and she lowered herself with perfect calm. Her throne.

She tapped her finger against the rim of the wine glass, once, twice, as if testing the note. Ordered a bottle of Malbec before the sommelier could speak. From somewhere I’d never heard of. Listed right at the bottom of the page.

When the bottle arrived, she took it and poured her own glass. Careful, precise. A drop ran down the side. Blood red. She brushed it with her thumb and dabbed her mouth. Eyes closed, she breathed out softly. Mouth slightly open.

Back in the room, she leaned back. Surveyed her surroundings. A tiny crease appeared at the corner of her mouth. A private thought caused a smile. A thought of me?

The waiter came by again. Needy. He leaned in too close to ask a question. She listened with her whole face, attentive, kind. Nodded once, then twice, before dismissing him with a smile so soft it must have carried him through the rest of his shift.

She adjusted her cutlery, though no food had arrived yet. Aligned the knife with the fork as if order mattered. The candle beside her flickered. She leaned forward slightly, bringing her face into the glow.

Her earrings glinted when she turned her head. Small silver hoops that swung gently. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. I felt it in my chest.

The bread came warm. She tore at it with delicate, deliberate fingers. Her lips brushed the crust before each bite. Crumbs dotted the tablecloth in constellations. A creator of worlds.

Her eyes swept the room. Never hurried. As though she were assessing, approving, permitting the world to exist around her. I held my breath every time they passed near me.

Her phone pinged, and she stood. Turned to face the door. Should I stand with her? Say her name? Embrace her from behind? I could hold on forever.

She adjusted the strap of her dress on her shoulder. A tiny movement, half an inch of skin revealed, then covered again.

The door opened. Simon arrived. Jadyn skipped to meet him. Grinning, waving, laughing. They touched hands. Stared at each other. Wingless butterflies spilled onto the floor.

He’s a cunt.

I should have left then. That would have been the end of it. But I stayed. Sat back down and let the shadows take over.

next: 58. Ping Pong Champion

previous: 57. Off the Market

Spoke to Warwick on the phone last night. He’d slid his business card under the door. I was a bit nervous calling. But it felt nice. Easy.

We started talking about my flat. He’d seen it listed on Facebook. Asked if I’d had any offers. Ha! I’ve only had one viewing, and that didn’t go brilliantly.

He reckoned I should take it off the market. See how things settle. Makes sense. Life’s better now. Got the job. Steady cash. Sleeping well.

I can afford to stick around a bit.

Haven’t had a drink since August 9th. I feel so good I feel like a drink. But not yet. Don’t want to start vaping again.

Heading into work early. Wrapped up a project yesterday and want to make sure it’s not shit before I hand it over.

I like the new boss. He gives me a task, then shuts the fuck up until it’s done. Leaves me alone. It works.

Yeah, I’m in no rush to leave.

next: -19. Obsidian Disorder

previous: -8,032. The Day We Lived in Skegness Forever

I was seven, maybe eight, the day we went to Skegness. Mum had packed triangle jam sandwiches and salt & vinegar crisps for the journey. Could smell her nail varnish as she handed out orange squash. I drank all mine, even though I wanted lemon.

We had to stop at a Little Chef to use the toilets. You could see the staff working in the kitchen. Real chefs in big hats. I wanted a breakfast that looked like it was smiling. Mum said we had food in the car, so I had a tantrum. Dad said he’d buy me fish and chips for supper if I was good.

The journey took years. We listened to Dad’s old Beach Boys tape three times, singing till our voices cracked. When I finally saw the “Welcome to Skegness” sign, it felt like we were entering a magic kingdom. Somewhere made up by a friendly wizard.

The sky was everywhere. Endless blue. And caravans I thought were big cars. Couldn’t believe people lived in them. They must be the luckiest people in the world.

We drove past a clock tower. I’d never seen anything so grand. It felt like something from a different world. A tower just for a clock. A guardian of miracles.

Then we parked somewhere Dad wanted a photo of. A band he liked had been there. It was near the pier. Wooden slabs, stretching far into the ocean. You could see water between the gaps, way under our feet. I held Dad’s hand in case I fell through. He saw me looking down and lifted me onto his shoulders.

I saw the Jolly Fisherman. Waved at him like he was royalty. He gave me a sticker that said “I ♥ Skeggy!” Wore it on my chest all day. I was in the gang.

We built castles with moats on the golden sands. Mum had a little pack of paper flags to stick in the tops. She said we should give each one a name. Mine was Battle Cat Castle.

Dad dug a massive hole, said he was going to Australia. I believed him and cried. So we filled it with water and pretended it was a lake for our kingdom. A little boy came over to join in. I didn’t like that and pushed him in. There was shouting. Dad took me to the donkeys.

One was called Trevor. I liked him best. The man said he used to be a racing horse and lifted me onto the saddle. I took it seriously. Held on tight. Trevor was wiry, like our doormat at home. Together, we set off on an adventure. Our shadows stretched across the beach.

I waved at Mum. It looked like she was crying, as if she hadn’t seen me in weeks. Dad stood with his back to me. I shouted and waved, but he was busy filling in our lake.

Next, or maybe it was before, we went to a Fairy Dell. A paddling pool surrounded by other-worldly caves. I lost a flip-flop. Thought I was going to be in trouble, but Dad found it floating by the steps and brought it over. Laughing as he pretended to spank me with it. I giggled.

We stayed there for ages. Mum sat on the edge with her feet in, trousers rolled to the knee. Dad took photos. At one point, he disappeared and came back with an ice cream in each hand, beaming. Shining.

Later, we went on the rollercoaster. It wasn’t the really big one, my heart skipped anyway. I was nervous waiting for my turn, but didn’t want to show it. Stayed silent, calm. We all squeezed into one cart, me on Dad’s knee. Mum screamed like she meant it. Dad laughed the whole way around.

They said I was a brave boy, so could have some fish and chips. Mum got them from a stall. We ate them walking around the fair. Straight from the paper. They were hot and soggy in the best way. Dad let me try his mushy peas. I hated them. Told him they tasted like bad grass. He said that’s how you know they’re proper.

As it got darker, we went to the arcades. They were loud. I had a cup of coins I fed into the penny pushers, one after another. Believing every single one was going to be a winner. None of them were.

Dad won a “Kiss Me Quick” hat from the claw machine. He got it on the first try. We couldn’t believe it. I watched in amazement as it dropped. We all did. Other families clapped. He wore it proudly. Regally.

We didn’t speak on the way back to the car. I fell asleep as the lights of Skegness disappeared behind me. Didn’t wake up until we pulled into our estate. My neck was sticky from sun and ice cream. I didn’t want to go inside.

Dad didn’t look like the same man. Less shiny. Wrinklier. He caught me staring at him in the rearview mirror. I tried to smile, but I felt like someone had scooped something out of my stomach. I thought we’d live at the seaside forever. In a big car. Why couldn’t we? It wasn’t fair.

I’ve been back to Skeggy a couple of times since. It looks tired. The pier gives up before reaching the water, and the caves have retreated into the ground. A world refusing to keep the promises childhood made.

The arcade was still there, though. Saw my Dad in his hat. Happy. Still the Champion of Skegness.

next: 57. Off the Market

previous: 56. Caramel Digestives

First day of the new job. Kind of. Already temped there for a couple of weeks. Didn’t need any colour-coded sheets or hand-holding. They know what they’re getting with me.

Nerves jangled a bit on the train, but was fine once I got there. I know my strengths. What they’re getting with me.

Easy-going place. Fun. We can wear what we want. They don’t treat us like children. I had on my Lego unicorn tee. Fits better around the middle since I stopped the booze.

Lost at ping pong to the intern. That’s fine. Good for him. Got a big pile of copying for him tomorrow. That should keep the little fuck busy.

Helped myself to a few chocolate digestives. They had caramel between the chocolate and the biscuit. Took some of those bad boys home.

next: -8,032. The Day We Lived in Skegness Forever

previous: 55. Morning Coffee with My New Mate

Bumped into beige suit guy again this morning. He was milling around the corridor when I got back from a run.

Said hello, and we got talking. I asked if he fancied a coffee. It was probably still too early for a pint.

We went to the WatchHouse on the corner. Love that place.

Turns out his name’s Warwick and he’s very inquisitive. Wanted to know how long I’ve been living here. What I do. How I find the area. Little things like that.

It was pleasant, though. Nice. Haven’t had someone to sit and talk to in a while. Didn’t feel forced. He listened to me.

Told him about the new gig I start on Monday. He seemed really interested in that. Wanted to know the hours. Where it is, etc.

It’s one of those modern offices with a casual dress code. There’s a ping pong table in the pantry. I got pretty good during my last stint there.

Oh, and the best bit. They provide chocolate digestives! For free. You can have as many as you like! It’s fucking amazing.

Turns out I’m just a regular guy. Having coffee in the morning with a mate. Nothing to see here.

next: 56. Caramel Digestives

previous: 54. A Clear Winia