Writing On Literature

  • Monday morning and another long journey to the site, the unspoken anger from last week just below the surface, John and Bob on opposite benches of a swaying and jolting pre-dawn tube train, hard-hats on the floor between their feet, when suddenly - Bob. - John. - Fuck. - What? A moment of expectation though with traces, possibly, of the familiar resignation, an acceptance of other Mondays not so dissimilar: always different, always the same. - Lunchbox. - Again? - Fucking lunchbox. - You stupid, absent-minded pillock. Seemingly mad at his own forgetfulness, furious teeth over the top of his stubbled lower lip, and only the one remorseless word (apparently) in John's emptied and unreliable mind. - Fuck fuck fuck

    Jul 12,