Lately, like a lot of us, I’ve been sleeping too much. Drinking too much. Passing the hours in my own way, listening to music, reading, cleaning up the house, and feeling almost paralysed by the stress of uncertainty. Stuck at home. Ordering carry out dinners, or cooking things for myself and later throwing them out once they’ve outlived their appeal in my sparsely populated fridge. Writing. More writing. Sometimes about important things, and sometimes about nothing anyone will read, but that is what pays. Ironic. Not that the important things will get read either, it’s just if I ever want to be remembered for something I hope it is for my prose and not for my 300 word-vomit on cash auto title loans or off-road bumpers.

The coffee makes the brain work. The shower gets the blood flowing. The alcohol slows it all back down again late at night so…