this one. I pick it up gingerly and place it on charge, upended and propped against a table leg. For some unaccountable reason, this is the only way it will charge now. The wire seems to have broken and it will bing incessantly otherwise. The first time it did it, the other day, I spent at least ten minutes wandering round the flat, trying to work out what was making the noise. Well at least it gives me something to do today; I’ll get online and order a new charger.
I wander into the kitchen, flick on the kettle and rummage about for some coffee. Great, there’s only decaf left; this is getting desperate. I add a double quantity hoping it will somehow help the situation and stare dispiritedly at the now-stale loaf I have available for breakfast. It’s not very appealing to be honest. Maybe I’ll make eggy dip to moisten it, unless … I search hopefully about in the fridge … nope, I’m out of eggs. It reminds me of that stupid advert where the woman gets in late from work, looks casually in the fridge and conveniently finds a courgette, a couple of eggs and some old cheese and whips up a meal out of almost nothing. It’s all very well unless you don’t have any eggs. In fact, I think it was an advert for eggs.
Okay, this is really sad. A couple of weeks ago I was living my best, well nearly my best life, laughing with customers, whipping up cocktails in one of the coolest bars in the district and now here I am obsessing about whether or not I have an egg in the fridge, with just a scrap of bread and a scraping of Marmite all that stands between me and starvation. I put the bread in the toaster and examine the couple of bags of crisps I have left. I could eat one now, but then there won’t be any for the long evening ahead and what about tomorrow?
I haven’t been able to get a food delivery from the supermarket until two weeks’ time. Until then I’ve got a problem. I’m just going to have to keep getting online and trying for slots. Perhaps if I try first thing in the morning? If I wanted to take this really seriously, I could set my alarm. But that’s a bit too keen, and the day will stretch even longer ahead of me. At this rate, I’ll be forced to turn my entire sock drawer into a puppet show cast of Hamilton and perform a one-man version of the hit musical on YouTube.
I wander back to the bedroom to grab my iPad so I can at least try to check for delivery slots again, but it’s still on one per cent. I plug it back in and attempt to prop the lead up with a book. It bings several times defiantly at me and then seems to be charging.
Back in the kitchen smoke is coming out of the toaster. I sprint towards it and desperately press the emergency eject button – this is the last slice; I can’t waste it even if it has completely turned to charcoal. It pops up and looks vaguely edible. I’ll scrape some of the burnt bits off with a knife. Whilst I am trying to do this, the bread, which in any kind of normal life would have been relegated firmly to the bin several days ago, gives up and collapses into several pieces.
I stand and munch at the Marmite-coated remnants, which are okay actually, when swigged down with large gulps of coffee, whilst peering out onto the courtyard. There’s no one out there; it’s unnaturally quiet. It’s been like this for the last couple of weeks: weirdly silent, no sirens even, as though people have stopped calling ambulances, the world has ceased to turn, waiting for some invisible storm to hit, but we are none of us sure what.
I wonder what the girl downstairs is up to. I haven’t heard a sound, so I assume she’s probably gone to work. I glance at the clock: 8.59 – ten minutes after the last time I looked. It’s as though time is going in slow motion since I’ve been stuck in this flat. I guess she would have to be in school now. I picture her standing in front of a small group of children, all sitting obediently two metres apart in different parts of the classroom. I wonder what