​”How’s your day going my darling, been up to anything fun?”

My day was alright I guess:

overslept,

accidentally dropped my last cigarette out the window,

ate six Yorkshire puddings for breakfast,

paid my council tax,

took some tramadol that I found,

noticed that the aforementioned tramadol had actually expired in 2014,

took some more,

broke up a fight between some schoolgirls on the 259 and was applauded by my fellow passengers,

bought some homeless guys some cheeseburgers and milkshakes,

won £2 on a scratch card that cost me £2,

had a breakdown in Kings Cross Paperchase upon being confronted by a wall of brightly coloured overly cheerful Father’s Day cards,

was comforted by a bunch of Italian tourists,

was informed by Paperchase staff that this happens all the time, babe, don’t worry your pretty little head about it,

purchased a packet of envelopes and a novelty pen shaped like a fish out of guilt because I felt bad for causing a scene,

walked along the canal and threw the fish pen into St Pancras Basin shouting BE FREE LITTLE ONE! SWIM GOOD!

spoke to a nice man about the pros and cons of his folding bicycle,

bought a bottle of cava,

walked to the zoo with my eyes closed to see if I could remember the streets correctly,

handed out one of my new envelopes to every human that I passed on Primrose Hill and studied their faces as they read what I’d written inside,

then left some tulips outside Sylvia’s houses, both of them, the one she lived in and the one she died in. How was your day?

“Oh, you know… the usual. Same shit, different day.”