Yog

by gurdeepmattu

I forget that properly cold FroYo still gives me asthma as I get some dark chocolate with blueberry topping.  We’ve just had a couple at the Fitzroy, both of us weary with muscles that didn’t want to do what they just did this weekend.  Laura has a bum hip and my hamstrings are tight and painful.  That cycle ride on Sunday was several kilometres too many.  I tell her I nearly bought some Old Spice.  She tells me she’s going to eat egg and beans on toast for her supper.

All day it’s been humid, the drizzle coming down as I bought my Cubana from EAT and coming down as I moved between buildings to launch yet another iteration of the linguistics list.  I am the only one left from 2007. I have seen over 60 people leave the company in that time.

As we pass Bow Road, it’s 8pm and no Bow Road Hipsters get off.  Someone yaps into a phone; we’re being held at a red signal; I can’t make my own egg and beans on toast as I have no eggs, beans or bread to toast, in the flat.

I listen to Tears for Fears and think of a friend as ‘Woman In Chains’ plays.  A crackle, or fizz, of energy, has changed the office dynamic.  Adult Trade Editorial have just installed a massive mirror on the wall in their Attic enclave.

I have been beyond tired for weeks, fragmentary sleep, friendships disintegrating into the ether of inactivity and that curious numbness that categorizes the early 30s and the fall out after a break up, the long term, half-life fall out of I don’t really care that much anymore and why did you ever pretend to love me when all you love is yourself and why do you do what you do when you do and ahem why do you STILL do it

I’m at Plaistow.  The next station is Upton Park.

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