Start as you mean to go on, day after day

HE wakes up at an indeterminate time on a nondescript day and looks at the wall, the ceiling, his inner being, and tries to summon the energy to get up out of bed. It doesn’t come easy. So, while he waits he picks up his phone and does the rounds, the social media, the unsociable media, the daily deluge of anger and blame.

There is nothing for him there, nothing he needs to see, but that doesn’t stop him wasting the first 15 minutes of this, the 300-and-something day, reading it all over again; the empty words, the worthless threats, the revelation and condemnation from those still fighting.

He finishes with a video, something cute, a dog playing in the snow, and, with a theatrical sigh, arises from his chamber. The commute is short, the traffic light, he is at his desk in seconds.

There will be a meeting soon, which presents the first dilemma of the day: breakfast or shower. In a sign of his growing recklessness he opts for both and returns to his desk in good time, two minutes to spare.

The meeting has already started, they are keen today. He quickly logs on; the first part is the best, the part where they just talk about any old rubbish, like they used to, before they became occasional faces on a screen.

Once the serious stuff starts he tunes out, spends the majority of the meeting staring at his own face, wondering how long his hair will grow this time. It ends with a flourish, like when a sports team emerge from a huddle with a synchronised clap: ‘ let’s do this’.

And then he’s on his own again.

He calls someone, they talk, it’s nice; they understand, everyone understands.

‘We’re the lucky ones,’ he says, as much to himself as them.

‘We are,’ they say, not sounding all that lucky.

Someone calls him, there’s an email, then another, and so the day progresses. To keep his spirits up he makes a cup of tea, sweeps the floor and empties the bins - he’s been getting a lot of housework done lately.

Once the excitement from the tea wears off he goes down to check the postbox, there’s nothing there. He wasn’t expecting anything. Lunchtime arrives - that’s the good thing; there’s always another high just waiting round the corner.

He goes for a walk, only a little one, and then eats half a sliced pan and a packet of biscuits. Back to work and he has a taste for it now; for eating, not work.

More tea, biscuits, cake, a load of washing, a mop of the floors, and the day is done. What happened, he couldn’t really say. It’s already consigned to history, just like all the others.

Now it’s time for the big one, the trip to the shop. This is joy unrefined, the purchasing of items, things, roundy, packaged little trinkets which bring happiness and meaning to his life.

But upon returning he has to transform them into a dinner. Naturally, obviously, he would prefer a takeaway, who wouldn’t? However, he has promised he’ll only have one of those a week. There are no limits on desserts though, sometimes he has four of those in one day. Then it’s the big walk, the real one. This can take an hour, maybe longer.

Because it’s dark he can’t see the faces, but he knows they’re there, smiling through their pain, understanding and appreciating the grim determination it takes to go out there every evening without fail.

Endorphins bouncing from one side of his head to the other he gets in the door and checks if there’s a match on. There’s always a match on. It’s Spurs and someone. It’s always Spurs and someone.

He watches it anyway. Spurs win, they’ll probably lose tomorrow or the next day.

At this point in proceedings there’s an opportunity to do something meaningful; a bit of yoga or baking, he could donate money to charity, contemplate the plight of those less fortunate than he.

But he turns on Netflix and Amazon, goes back and forth, lies on the couch and allows time to drift by. He doesn’t feel tired, exhausted yes, but not tired. An episode ends, another starts, and the day ends as it began; with him laid on his back, on his phone, reading the stories, the doom, desperately trying to summon up the effort to move, to rise, to finish what he started.