Reflections

   Most mornings I wake and don't know who I am. I
check the mirror but get no clues from the reflection. There is a girl
who lives in a house on the other side of the street. I don't know who
she is either but that seems okay. Her window is opposite mine. She has
long straight hair and I often catch a glimpse of her brushing it
before she goes to bed.

   My room is basic. I joke that I am saving up for a
garret, but that is a lie. I am not saving anything. A Chinese couple
live in the room next door. There cooking permeates the house, they
even have stir-fried beef for breakfast. That's commitment to culture.
They are a quiet couple. I sometimes hear them talk. I rarely hear them
fight and never hear them have sex. The walls are paper-thin, so I
would hear if it ever happened. Down stairs there is supposed to be a
Greek chap. Krykus or something that sounds like a lentil. I have met
him once and seen him twice more. That is all.

   I want to tell people that I write to pay the
bills but the truth is, I pay the bills to write. Some days, not
knowing who I am is great. I clothe myself with my characters. Their
flaws are mine, my desires are theirs and I get lost on the page,
hidden between the lines of Times New Roman. Other days my doubt is
hell. I stumble into work and hide behind my computer and get lost in
Excel. Waiting. Waiting for the knock on the door; the parade of
managers, bosses and personnel.

   "You're a fraud," they'll say. "We've found you
out," and they'll cheer as they pat themselves on the back and wait for
security. I hope I don't stutter or stammer when it happens. My day of
reckoning.

   Truth, they say, is stranger than fiction and life
imitates art while Amis launches a war against clich?. Clich?s never
kill anybody, a bit like hard work I guess, but at least the war is
fought on the bloodless page. The war on terror continues. It soaks the
morning pages in blood. What do I know of war? Very little if the truth
be told. Like most people I've read a few books; seen a few films. "The
Second World War was my favourite" is a great line from a shitty film.
It sums up the media fed populace: starved of heroes in the hi-tech,
CNN sponsored conflicts, they hanker after the boy's own daring of the
d-day landings yet forget that the cast quickly translates into a roll
of honour.