Moving On

When I get back to my flat, after dropping Sid off at the stable, and getting some takeaways and pack of Montheiths, I look around. Scrungy place is a might as well be a fucking dunny. Doesn’t solve a thing, me living like this. And going the hair-shirt route hasn’t made me feel any better.

No twinks while I was out there, so I’ll put off seeing a doc. But I’ve taken to avoiding the mirrors when I’m in the loo. Bloody ridiculous, but I don’t want to see what’s there.

I swallow the beer down quickly and reach for another, eating the food, thinking. My holiday helped clear my head, and I can see that I’ve got to shift my digs if I’m gonna get the kids to come around again. I’ll fight the rotten bitch. No reason why they can’t visit their da. But I’ve got to have a flat worth visiting.

Not a house, no yard, nothing like that. Maybe a patio flat. I’ll call an agent in the morning.