Dreaming of Sleep in Daydreams

Still in the call centre. Ten minutes till I leave the claustrophobic confines of the office for the carnival madness of the call floor, where I'll spend three hours conducting a survey on behalf of an insurance company.

Feel oddly restless today, a listless energy, though mixed with a kind physical lethargy. 'A hunger for something that didn't exist' to quote, or paraphrase Albert Camus.

Perhaps it is the spring, and the obsessions and fascinations that I have immersed myself in are to be cast aside, for the new obsessions and fascinations of springtime.
I think of my room, the single bedsit, and do not look forward to returning home.

Pam has just come into the office, to start her four hour shift. She has a cold. Tom is typing away sat next to me. Pam is talking about sellotape, and Mr Harrold is silent. Pam has found her sellotape.

An odd need to travel somewhere, away from the endless repeats of Brighton. A hill above a lake, a shore of a nameless sea, a glade of an unmapped wood. Sleep in barns and by hedge-side, listen to wood pigeons and a distant breeze.

Dreaming of sleep in daydreams now.
It looks like an old sun out there. A 1970s sun. Abbey Crescent. Maybe even older. Malta. Dusty meditterenean sun. Does meditterenean have a capital? Three weeks till my 38th birthday.

Dream of Wilbury Crescent. When Joe leaves Brighton this Friday for, as yet, unknown pastures, Wilbury Crescent will be cast even further back into the past. A year yesterday that we handed back the keys. A shepherds warning sunset.

Four minutes till I leave the office.
Four hours till I am home.
Four days until Saturday.

Not that I am particularly waiting for the weekend.