Thersites
The sound of the clock is always the first thing. It surely interrupts something but I’m never aware of what. I can only think of stopping the noise, the God-awful noise cutting through the blissful unknowing. It’s heartless, that clock. It has no respect. It’s like the next door neighbour, who starts using his motor mower first thing on a Sunday morning. As if he’s happy to be up and about. God, perhaps he is.
If my unconciousness is total before the damned clock, then it can only be about ninety per cent effective after it. I have a vague notion of what I’m doing, but if it wasn’t the same every morning I could never do it. It’s a bit like a trance. I manage not to let the kettle burn itself out and not to cut myself too severely while I’m shaving, but it’s only because of the blessed routine. I imagine the black coffee reduces my unconciousness to around seventy-five per cent, but if for any reason the milkman or the postman or the paper boy rings the doorbell then the whole balance of things is upset. I hate those mornings. Only a sense of duty obliges me to answer the door. It’s not as if they ever want paying. I leave the money out regular as clockwork in secret places so I don’t have to talk to them. There’s a different place for each of them. The paper boy’s I leave under the dustbin, the milkman’s behind the window box. The postman comes free, of course. But if he didn’t I’d have negotiated a special place for him, too. Maybe under the doormat. But sometimes they ring the bell anyway, for any sort of mundane reason. Was it orange juice or apple juice I wanted? Another strike at the Telegraph, would the Times be okay? A letter by Recorded Delivery (what? who’s sending me these?), could I sign for it? All in a day’s work, but I prefer to stew in peace. It would be nice to say I’m quietly thoughtful at this time of day, but it would be an untruth. My mind is blank, devoid of any thought or perception. Nearer brain death than when I’m asleep. Bliss.
I’m fond of the routine. It’s a rather special routine, mine, because it doesn’t follow the clock. Not exactly. Some days it’s 9.25 I leave the house, other days it’s 9.30. I like my routine to have a bit of variety. I’m big enough for that, I hope. It’s a pleasant enough walk to work, if’ it isn’t raining. I still don’t actually notice much. Oh, I notice if it’s raining or not, but I couldn’t tell you if I pass any trees for instance, or if the roads are busy. I once passed a dead cat and I noticed that, as you do. But a couple of days later it was gone. Someone had taken it away. Fancy.
If it is raining I sometimes feel a bit depressed and if the sun’s shining I sometimes feel a bit light-hearted. But sometimes it happens the other way round, so what the connexion is between my mood and the weather I couldn’t say. Unpredictable.
It takes about fifteen minutes to get to work. By this stage my unconciousness has unfortunately been reduced to somewhere around sixty per cent, but the good news is that it never gets any lower. Everyone else is there by the time I arrive. They like to start early and finish early. I have no choice. I can’t get up early enough to start early. They’re all very busy by the time I arrive. There must be twenty or more type-writers rattling away. And twenty or more middle-aged women rattling away simultaneously. I don’t mean to be offensive to women — I was very fond of a woman once — but facts are facts and there’s no denying it. I’m the only man and that’s an unenviable position for anyone.
I couldn’t claim to be a hard worker. I do what’s required of me, certainly no more and possibly a bit less when I can get away with it. It’s undemanding and I couldn’t begin to describe it. Nobody’s ever asked me to, actually. I’m aware that it involves a lot of reading and the occasional bit of underlining. I believe I sometimes have to put a few sentences together and pass them on to someone to be typed, but that could be my imagination. Sometimes my mind does stray rather towards the question of what it would be like to have an interesting job, and it’s possible that putting sentences together and passing them on to someone to be typed is part of a fantasy job. I’m not really very clear about it.
After lunch I have half an hour to spare. I nearly always go out. I usually go for a walk down to the beach. It’s better in winter than in summer. In winter, quite often, there’s no-one there at all, especially if there’s a strong wind and the sea is churning. I prefer it when it’s grey and wild. To tell the truth I’m rather scared of the sun. I avoid it when I can.
I’m never late back at my desk. They can say a lot of things about me but I’m never late at my desk. I’m always back by two o’clock. Time passes. At five o’clock most of them go home. I breathe a sigh of relief. I’ve got another hour to go but at least I can spend it in peace, doing nothing.
The house never looks the same in the evening. I suppose it’s because I’m a bit more present. I even notice things — the dust on the radio, the pile of unread newspapers in the corner, the clock on the mantelpiece that stopped at midnight a lifetime ago. I sink, exhausted, into a chair and remain there a while. Life outside definitely takes a lot out of you. I often wish I drank at this time of the day: I have a vague feeling that if I were clutching a gin and tonic I would, in some small way, approximate to the rest of the world. Then I remember the rest of the world and am grateful.
The evening passes. I rest again after dinner. Sometimes I do a little dusting, a little tidying-up. Nothing too strenuous, just putting things into piles, emptying a waste-bin, throwing away the old tubes of toothpaste. It gives me a sense of achievement. I can go to bed feeling I’ve really done something.
I still suffer with the insomnia, though. In the summer it’s nearly always dawn before conciousness drains away like a bad dream. In the winter it’s not so bad because it’s at least still dark when the ghastly thing’s finally over. I wish I could experience unconcious-ness all the time, but I’ve got as close as I can and beyond that you have to accept life’s great paradox or end it all. I’m too much of a coward for that, so I’ve settled for an infinity of small deaths. Good night.
Page(s) 5-6
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