Missing the "interview cycle"

London is very dark today. The Pickle is swathed in a wet cloud. All the scowling worker faces were half hidden under hoods or books or brollies or briefcases as I rushed to work in the rain, clutching my broken umbrella. Everything was moving in rivers, shuddles, drips, thick speckled air. The caretaker for the Rise building was on his knees picking up sycamore propellers from the drive leading up to the gates. I caught his eye as I passed by and smiled. He looked embarrassed.

Another cat has gone missing from a house by Shadwell Basin. Isabella. There are fading signs on the trees. I read the muffled words, with neither sight nor sound of another living creature for as long as I stood there. Her sister was lost in July. “Neither were known to roam”. Their owners are devastated. The autumn leaves are silently filling the canal, scurried by ground gusts, landing like ducks on the abandoned surface of the dull lemon water. I found the birds further along the path on a black lily pond. Busy, happy ducks, calm and serene, with orange withered angled legs. Flappy deformed feet perfectly still then paddling like crazy then perfectly still.


I had a little dream that isn’t going to come true.
There is no interest in my idea.
I’m dejected, rejected, wishing I had never even asked.

The world’s gone mad. Between reckless acts on Ebay and this.

It has been a bleak day. It is definitely time to go home.