It’s 3:28pm on Monday afternoon, and I’m waiting for Francis out the front of my building. With me are my laptop, my camera, and a copy of Grayson Perry’s Playing to the Gallery.
Other tenants of the building keep walking
by and giving me odd looks; it’s cold, and I’m sitting on top of the structure
that houses the bins for buildings inside. Also, none of these people know who
I am, other than maybe a manifestation of the one of the people they’ve heard
in apartment three.
I am completely aware of how insane all looks,
but I don’t care. Between 3:20 and 4:20pm, Francis is going to bring me the clothes airer I’ve been waiting for since last Thursday. I never put so much
mental energy into a clothes airer before now; come 4:20pm I never want to
think about it ever again.
