Monday

A day of spirit-fattening sunshiny brightness. Summer extending its dominion, keeping the taloned grip of winter... blah, blah, blah, blah - Doesn't make a fuck of a difference if you're trapped in an office staring at a computer screen.
But why make light? I was completely demoralised by 5.30pm. Gone the full-blooded yesness of Saturday afternoon on the football pitch. Gone the post-coital peace of Sunday morning under the warm duvet. This is Monday, and everyone's a cunt again. Cunts on bikes (the way the tossers with rolled up trousers balance on their pedals at the lights), cunts in cars, cunts staring at you like farm animals on the pavement. Narcissistic cunts. Cunts in suits. Homeless junkie cunts drinking tins of beer as soon as they wake up and looking for an opportunity to nick your stuff so they can sell it for money to buy more beer and scag.
My first thought as I approached home: drink.
But shouldn't I resist this? Shouldn't I use the power of rational thought to sidestep this cheap sense of despair?
I drank. The hecticness, the horrible gravity of workaday London is too often too much.
On the way home I saw the scattered fragments of a car lying in the middle of the road unattended. Remnants of some hateful afternoon collision, the effluvia of another bad-tempered day. And how I wished for an excuse to headbutt a stranger. How hungrily I fantasised, as I pedalled through the rush-hour traffic, about making someone bleed.
What am I doing here? Why do I subject myself to it? Surely I should just walk away. Surely I should just walk away.