15 October 2001
The stripped trunk stands isolated amongst the ankle-hugging heathland like a totem-pole waiting to be carved, so I focus my eyes in its vicinity, burrowing my head into the mound of cushions that bedeck the sofa like a six by two foot harem in an attempt to block out the banging. I flick my gaze away repeatedly in search of the phantom insects crawling over my hand and try to zoom in on some tangible ideas as his lips move towards mine.
I'm a kangaroo I'm a kangaroo I'm a kangaroo I'm a kangaroo. The cushions smell of the friend who was crashing on them a few hours ago, unable to claw her way any nearer home on the late night transport. The workmen crash about in the room we were turfed out of at eight in the morning and I pretend the sleep I'm aiming for as they labour resentfully around the sofa.
It's probably psychosomatic, a response to seeing the bloated horse-fly strutting about on the bench next to me and my attention wanders to sifting through the 4am revelations on the night bus home. Mouthfuls of cushion and hair fail to eradicate the stale relish of cigarettes and booze (no drugs, so the bad pun in the title is avoided) permeating my mouth. Maybe I think I don't get hangovers because I identify them too legalistically with headaches, maybe that's what this state of mind is now? The friday deadline niggles.
The development of this model in the 1970s sprang from disillusionment with the then traditional tripartate division into casework, groupwork and community work. Theorists and educators were keen to have more integration between these different approaches, relocating problems traditionally seen as being in the mind of the individual and if I didn't mean it would I really be lying here with my cock nestled between your balls and your thigh?
This isn't working, let's go to the park.
How long have I been trying to sleep now? Their belching contest has stopped and now there are noises coming from the kitchen as if they are spreading a four foot piece of toast. Toast. Is confessing urges of incest usual for three weeks into a friendship? Getting out is definitely working, away from the noise and the air clears my head (Chisholm Road heh heh) I'm a kangaroo I'm a kangaroo I'm a kangaroo I'm a kangaroo.
How come thigh makes me think of little portions of chicken bundled together under clingfilm on a polystyrene tray when I don't imagine a pert-nippled pec neatly carved into slices of whit meat if someone says breast? Packs of tame dogs yelp and snarl around each other in the long grass, briskly marshalled by steel-haired ladies and I try not to remember the money I blew for an evening out on the piss when I'm arguing with the flint faced girls in the sandwich shop about being overcharged 65p as his lips move towards mine.
Watch where you're going. Sorry. If I can just come up with a topic, the rest will flow from there. Cold air blasts in where they've removed the windows but my sofa den encircles me with warmth like a pair of strong arms; will they understand why my toes are wiggling? I'm a kangaroo I'm a kangaroo I'm a kangaroo I'm a kangaroo. The sound of Capital fucking Gold for five fucking hours as it plays the same fucking adverts every fifteen minutes.
Dead leaves flutter around the trunk and inspiration strikes. Need a new bed?
"Men are no use for anything until they have been despunked." Cynthia Payne. (Women should be struck regularly, like gongs.)