It’s on the top deck of the bus home, sandwiched in next to the anaemic teenagers smoking at the back. It’s under the squashed cartons of Macdonalds french fries blowing along the high street and clogging up the gutter. It’s the 3:30 work lull and tea break, somewhere at the bottom of the biscuit barrel, it’s essence soaked into the crumbs of the rich tea biscuits and flakes of custard creams. It’s the dead zone between the Antiques Road Show, Songs of Praise and Gardeners World. It’s the long dark afternoon of the soul (An idea plagarised shamelessly from Douglas Adams) and on days like this it can eat you.
I think I start to feel this way around the fourth cup of tea (caffeine paranoia) at the moment I realize I can achieve nothing more useful with my day other than to pack up and go home. I’ve been trying to find a cure for this since my a-levels. I think I’ll try tidying my room, it might have just enough sense of purpose to shift my existential funk and give me a sense of achievement. Or I could have another cuppa.