I am wrapped in approximately twenty layers of wool (temperature Arctic, heating useless). Two lip balm stained mugs by my side, splatterings of coffee across the kitchen table. Computer on and blinking vacantly at me. Head empty. Think I’ll make another cup of coffee.
So this is unemployment.
The postman rang the doorbell at about 11:45 am with a package for Mr Reynolds next door. Not having been home on a weekday for about six years, meeting the postman fills me with some excitement. Accepting the big brown box, I start thinking about the fact that I have lived in my house for about three years and have never had any contact with Mr. Reynolds. What if this suspiciously large package is some kind of explosive device, a special ordering of fertiliser for some homemade pyrotechnics? I check the label. John Lewis. OK, fine. Although, on second thoughts, if you were in the business of supplying dodgy chemicals you probably wouldn’t label the packages as from “House of Fertiliser” or “Explosives-R-Us”, would you?
Such musings are curtailed by the arrival of Mr. Reynolds himself to claim his package, all smiling crinkly face and old man duffle coat. Thinking he was probably not prime demographic material for dabbling in concerning chemicals, I hand the goods to him. Whilst maintaining a wary expression, of course. After all, a friendly granddad demeanour would be the perfect cover for an East End group of terrorists (for I know these sorts hang out in Bethnal Green; it was on Spooks last week).
Excitement over, I return to my kitchen and the accusatory glare of my laptop screen. Cue more vacant blinking (this time from me). Another cuppa, then?
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