A helium ten of unicorn colours. Jo’s birthday. Pastel balloons bobbed with gas. All the cake has gone. Everybody has gone to bed, but me. The man on the television is drinking tea, and I want tea. It doesn’t matter that it’s eleven at night and I have to get up at six. Sad music makes me feel sad. I wrote that because the man on the television looked sad, accompanied by sad synthesiser. It’s a documentary about identical twins. Sad music doesn’t make me depressed—but thoughtful.

I took a deep breath. It sounded loud in my head. I can hear every intake of breath through my nose if I close my mouth. Why do I grind my teeth? Am I anxious? I am anxious. I’m going to make myself a cup of tea to feel less anxious. Or should I have hot milk? There isn’t much milk, and my bank account looks slim. But I’ll have to go shopping. I’ll go tomorrow. I’m asking myself if it gets any better. Not life but the text that I’m writing. Am I improving? But does life get better? Not that I can compare my life with others.

I’m wearing fat headphones. There’s no music but a whispering hiss, the incomplete signals from receptors to the brain—my brain. I first noticed the hearing loss in my left ear when I wore headphones—the stereophonic effect. Not the Welsh band. I’m referring to the experimenters who pan guitars one side, drums and bass the opposite, or variations of—popular in the late sixties and seventies. Why do some tracks sound so tinny? I mused. I swapped the left can for the right, and a light came on. Bring back monophonic recordings. Not as in monotonous, but using one channel of transmission.

The creaking will start soon. The bones of the house will contract and crack. It only does it when I’m here by myself. If I listen to music, will it make a sound, and if I put on music, will it change the mood of what I’m writing now? I’m conscious that I’m grinding my teeth. Put the leftover bolognaise in the fridge and save it for tomorrow. I had a small pack of frozen meat and some frozen pretend meat and mixed it together. I fried off onions, carrot, and spices; tomatoes, ketchup, and purée; stock cube, and soy sauce. Combined with the mince, both real and fake. Is that how the media works? A blend of fake and real, and in the end, it’s hard to tell what is what. I couldn’t taste the difference and I served it with pitta bread, cucumber and celery. I arranged it on blue plates so it looked more culinary. Gastronomy. Many people can’t tell the difference in the media either. British staple, sausages and mash becomes rustic cuisine. A lie, but a palatable one. What other lies do they feed us?

Ray Bradbury believed it was a lie to write for fame or the approval of snobbish literary circles. He often emphasised the importance of writing for yourself and your passions. Knowing that doesn’t make it easier. Am I kidding myself? I can write, sure—but do I have anything to say? I write for me, myself, and I. The crap in my life that bores me will stupefy a reader by the count of three. And I don’t know why these phrases are coming in rhymes. At least in my head—if I say it enough times. But that’s how I say them, in my head. That’s authentic, right? I didn’t say it was engaging. What if I were to invent a new life? A protagonist with no life? That could be me. Could I make it sound real? I aim to live what I write.

It’s the end of the week tomorrow and I’ve only started. I should be grateful for what I have. I am. But disheartened. I wanted more—and I know we all feel the same. I want more. The next step will be painful. Change always is. The grey box on the wall that controls the alarm ticks randomly. Red lights keep flashing. Warning me. Of what I couldn’t tell you. I smell sulphur like someone lighting a match. I sniff to check it’s not in my head, but my mind thinks the worst. Or is it a lit cigarette? But I don’t smoke. I tried for a week, but it made me sick. It didn’t make me cool. I’m glad in a way that it never took hold, unlike tea. That will never grow old. Though I’m glad I’m no longer addicted to sugar.

At school today, I found an orange marker. I don’t know how to describe the part of the board where you rest pens when they aren’t in use. Do they need rest? My pens work hard. That’s why I’m always looking for new ones.

For the first time this year, I don’t shiver. I removed my blue hoodie and the scarf, which had been stopping my head from falling off. I’m breaking a sweat. I’m wearing my red and black checked shirt today. It’s a thick material, some type of cotton, but I’m no expert. Emma had to answer the phone. Not my daughter, Emma, but my student. I’m in class. There should be more students, but today there are four. The projector whirrs and rumbles like a plane about to take off—or angry bugs. That’s why it’s so warm here, or at least one reason. The orange marker works well. It has a smooth, consistent line, and I will take it away with me, although it’s not mine. I don’t believe the orange marker had anything to do with the heat in the room.

I looked out of the window. The weather had changed again. Snow melts, then it rains, then it goes cold, the rain freezes. It repeats. Snow, and then it melts, like a perpetual motion weather machine on the same cycle. Spring is coming. What does the orange marker mean? Is there a special significance to the colour orange, the colour of the sun when it sets and rises? Orange is a fruit and a colour. Orange is not the only fruit, and orange is the new black. Cultural references. The word in Spanish is naranja, which also describes the colour and the fruit. Is that the same in Swedish? Emma, the student, is nodding, so I guess it is. Have I been thinking out loud?

We have a piano in our classroom. If I knew there was nobody to hear me, I’d play it. I’m not a confident player, or indeed a player, but it doesn’t stop me from trying. I want to play it, but it would be too distracting. Though they cheer me on when I remember the notes to a simple tune.

It’s the end of the week tomorrow and I’ve only started. I said that before, but it’s more than just a repeated refrain. It sometimes takes a while to get in my swing.

What do I want my students to do? Write what’s in their heads. But my head is full of nonsense and then the world will know I’m crazy, not think it alone. It will tear down the curtain. Does that make me the Wizard of Oz?

And the day has gone. On the metro. Why does that man have such a large bag? Why did he sit next to me? That woman has shiny trousers—oily. Leather? They look plastic. No, definitely leather. I can smell them when she moves. Not in a creepy way. We’re all stuck together in this can on wheels. The man with the large bag smells of barber shop aftershave—spicy, woody, powdery. He’s playing a game that makes beeps, pings and clicks—some artificial casino. It’s loud, and interrupts my Scrabble game. I always have the pings, beeps and clicks off. Today there’s not enough space on the metro. We still rattle like loose change in your pocket. Too many holiday souvenirs. One last straw donkey. One more litre of Ouzo. I’m coming to my stop, but I can’t stop writing. Looking over my shoulder. I can’t miss my stop. I squash between commuters—negotiate knees, beneath a stretched arm. Shoulders rubbing shoulders. Perfume pushed, cologne collided, body odour clung. All opening their mouths at the same time. Fingers raised, pointing at me. Accusing me. Were they? Or were my eyes playing tricks? Was I so different? Donald Sutherland in Invasion Of The Body Snatchers. I felt sticky. Head buzzing. One noise. The sound of metal scraping metal, like teeth grinding. My teeth grinding.

The wrong time of day to travel by train. The sun had come out, spring clouds making way, and I had run out of things to say. It was Saturday tomorrow, another day.