Christmas Eve Eve Eve Eve Eve

I dreamt that a terrorist space shuttle spun and crashed on Cheapside. I saw it from the back window of a London cab. I dreamt that one of my college friends, a tall mad person, left a note for one of my staff calling her a fat, slutty anti-semite.

I took toffees to the office and got in the way of a building surveyor. A Sikh with brown gunk in his moustache wished me a happy Christmas and asked for money for a charity. I was late and burpy from soup.

I saw a prawn cracker in the shape of a duck on the pavement. A grey condom with a knot in it. Coloured paperclips. Broken orange car indicator plastic. An empty pen ink cartridge. A small woman with thin, flat hair and big eyes and gold cog jewellery, walking, barely moving forward, staring at the ground, opening a packet of Silk Cut.

There’s always blood on the street outside the Pepper Pot pub.