Monday, December 11, 2006

An extract from:


There has to be more to life than this.
Did he say that aloud or just think it? It’s the sort of trick solitude plays on you. Peter slumped even lower in the sofa. His plate lounged beside him, smeared by the remains of microwaved supermarket mush, emanating kitchen smells in the living room. The Burgundy beeswing crusted the bottom of his glass; his tongue felt the same. The TV wafted its colours around the room and droned on about the hundred best nappy adverts or something, and the clock’s second hand jerked on its circular journey in silent saccades; just for now, it’s five to 11. Trish still wasn’t home. Yet another late meeting with her City stockbroker chums, negotiations drawn out in some big deal. Good money, though: don’t complain.
He really did not want to go to bed on his own again, to be roused by her considerate but clumsy attempts at quiet entry in the small hours; she always went straight for the shower to hose off the smoke and grime. So he dropped his plate in the dishwasher, heaved himself upstairs to the spare room and flicked on the computer to ..............................

By Richard O'brien

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