Just About Ten Past Caring

If you.ve really had enough, here.s the door. But
before
that, first here are your arms to support all body
weight on
the sorry chair swivelling with your matt eyes, as
you prepare
for landing on feet, which will do the voting,
watching

and noting the boss.s neat reaction, a face that
actually says,
it.s a loss, but Hell, losses can be replaced.
Here.s the
walk between office-block and car. Here, in the
wing
mirror, who you are. Here.s the thumb press on the fob,

the head and rear lights flashing on and off, the clunk, the

click, the forward rotation of the wrist, the sound of
your
father wheezing his last, then ignition, a blast. Here,
in the
foot well, your legs find the clutch and gas, an answer
to

questions you haven.t yet asked. Here are the signs in

blue and white, the numbers that follow letter thirteen, a

picture-pretty scene worthy of an old master. Here.s a

gust of wind now, a last patronising pat on Beachy Head.

Here.s the shape your body makes, a cross: a bit
biblical
martyr, more Olympic diver, your ungraceful descent.
And
here.s the fiver I lost on the bet. Here.s the internet.
Here.s
a church, here.s a steeple, open this web page, and
here.s

some people who emailed to say, had your decision been

one to stick it out in a Churchill no need for girlie
moping
about stylie, they think they would have been all right
with
that. They.re pretty sure that would have been
okay.