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Sunday morning, a ramble, that's all.

Having been disturbed from his slumbers on and off for most of the night by the central-heating grumbling into action momentarily, because of the cold outside, he crawls out of his bedding. A double-sized sleeping-bag lies folded in half to form a single-size with one layer on top of three, a thick blanket that has also been folded underneath to cushion hard flooring, on thread-bare carpet behind a tatty old sofa.Out of sight, out of mind.
He slowly tugs at the zip on the side, lifts the flap, and struggles to get himself into an upright position. Squinting through dry tired sleepy eyes he flicks the switch on the kettle and goes for a pee. Funny how when one is trying not to make a sound how loud everything seems. The boiling of his electric kettle. The rattle of crockery as he gets a mug from the pantry. Even stirring a spoon of sugar into his tea. CHINK CLUNK BANG RATTLE, every one an assault on his fragile state.
Those first few sips of hot strong, sweet tea, oh god, such pleasure, touching every part of his mind and body, is difficult to relate. warm expels cold and it's time to start another day.
Something to eat. A dry slice of toast. A piece of bacon and leak quiche. A few spicy wedges. There's an opened tin of tomatoes in the fridge he remembers. Yesterday's leftovers. There was a decent meal to had with that little lot. Sustenance. Fueling the body. Keeping the motor running. He hates throwing food away. How did we ever live without microwaves? Heaven sent.
The food tasted good, it filled, it comforted, and, with a mug of "not so hot coffee, having cooled as he ate" life didn't seem half so bad now as he sat quietly, allowing feelings of warmth and contentment to wash over him. The new day could wait a while.
Well, the new day could, for him, wait a while but it would not be denied.

It is now almost lunchtime and he has done nothing. He works all week. By the time Saturday morning arrives he feels totally spent. He go catch a bus at around 10.00. am. Go shop for supplies. Get home and that's it until Monday night. He just sits. Vegetates.Recovers and recuperates.
He's becoming increasingly frustrated. Yes it could be worse but it's not enough. There has to be more to his life than this but what?


Lol, yeah.
I remember one time Clement Freud recalling in one of his tales how he'd been invited to partake of a late supper one night with friends and the offering had been "chicken-ding".
Pre-cooked and microwaved.

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