You said ten pounds.

“A starter, a main, any naan and a pint of beer, your choice.”

“Here I am again then. Soon I’ll be standing beside the pond at Decathlon, that cold, sad block of water, hemmed in by concrete. If only the Moorhens were bothered but they’re not fussy. I cannot believe this space opens up each time and asks me to die, yawns out at me. Any eyes that meet mine are not worth it, what are they looking at? A shirt? A pair of glasses? A body? They see whatever they want to see and make my shallow stare seem cavernous. It’s an empty word that clogs my bowel, not even bad Brick Lane curry will shift it. No. No poppadoms thanks.”