Part dystopian urban cartography, part spatial-poetic intervention

It's a perfectly still suburban Monday at the place where I work. The bottom row of my computer screen is flashing with unread orange messages. She did this; she said that...I've chosen to ignore them. My ironic ex girlfriend is back to her usual self and is being incredibly nice to me. She may be single again by the end of the week. I'm not listening. She says she's never been on a picnic. Hey that's great, I would have thought had my brain been working, should have told me last week. The new girl is continuing her stalker based assault on the guy who works elsewhere. She's found him on Facebook. He may have a child. I'm not listening. Some1ne is bitching about their days off. I'm indifferent. My ex girlfriends current soon to be ex boyfriend - it's like Melrose Place around here, but with less hot pool action and more pens - is glaring at me or practicing his glaring in general through the window. I'd glare back, but I can't be bothered. Tuesday truly is the Lords most apathetic creation. I realise as I begin all this indifference around me that I'm tapping my pen on the edge of the desk to the tune of popular hit song. There's a sticker on my desk that just reeks of irony. They've started to hand out awards here at work, motivational stickers and e-mails are just flying around the office like the Wright Brothers. They keep sending me e-mails with smiley faces in the middle of them telling me what a great job I'm doing. Today they sent me home from work early as a reward for all my wonderful efforts. I'm staring at my great work sticker while realising I've done nothing all day but sit with fuzzy thoughts and mentally curse the new taste of the Milo Bar. Maybe I am doing a great job and I haven't realised it yet - or maybe they've just lowered the bar, like when they started giving out soccer trophies in school just for showing up. I bite into a Chunky Kit Kat. My ironic ex girlfriend has sent me a message. She'd love to go to the football with me next year. I didn't offer. Our clock continues to tick loudly. I don't think anyone here is going to join in my debate on whether my crush on Samantha Bee is idiotic - they will gather soon in an all men are bastards focus group. I could put my head down on the desk and have a nap today. All underneath the ticking clock - metaphorical and real - and right in front of a smiling great work sticker...

My ironic ex girlfriends soon to be ex boyfriend - I'd go for MIEGSTBEB if I didn't dig my word count - waits for her outside work every day. He's a pretty grumpy looking guy, with a scrunchy face and a wispy beard he hasn't quite grown into. He's started calling her at work to talk about feelings. When I say feelings, he works as far as I can remember at Blunstones, so feelings generally involve swearing and taking innocent crockery and throwing it at walls. Ah, the sweet pang of stereotyping. Keeps me warm at night. Anyway, he's started turning up to work, and he looks extra scrunchy. I'd glare back, but that would involve moving my face. And it's a Tuesday, I can barely sip Red Bull from a can such is my torpor, let alone compose a facial expression based on anger caused by a random accumulation of events over time towards a man who I vaguely thinks knows I exist through a glass window with a McDonalds thick shake stain dripping down it. The new girl has threatened to find me a date for Xmas drinks. I have tried to gently point out that I'm not quite in the mood to go out and stalk some1ne for the purposes of dating. Then again, the new girl, I still suspect, goes home every night to cry while she eats Frosties out of the packet and listens to 101 sad songs, so I hope she doesn't set me up with a similarly emotionally tuned friend - I hate Frosties. I'm Scottish, I'm suspicious of happy people, what can I tell you? As far as she is concerned, the man in the shop she is stalking by pretending to be interested in what he is selling is the 1ne. I want to cause a scene and see how he handles pressure. He may be coming to drinks - I think of dates with drinks now like that old Bill Cosby joke about cocaine - it might intensify your personality, but what if you're an asshole...everyone in this office I can say hand on heart is either dating an asshole, or possibly stalking 1ne. At this rate, we'll all be eating ice cream together in a huddle. Luckily, my indifference is breaking the cycle of whinging about stuff. No 1ne has whinged to me about anything all day. I like to think I'm making a difference...maybe that's why I got the sticker...

The only person I've felt I've stalked is Pippa in primary school. Pippa was my friend, although but for the presence of a reputable Burnie photographic company taking our Grade 2wo photo, I'd swear she was an apparition. I'm sure I've got most of my primary school experience wrong - given I swore for 10en years John Farnham’s appearance on Home and Away involved his head floating around on screen, don't quote me on this - but I was sure I never saw or spoke to Pippa in class. To my mind, she just stood next to our school monkey bars and said things that were incredibly wise and poignant and in a breeze her hair would blow about a bit. I was totally in love with her in school, as much as any 6ix year old could love anyone. Our love was flawed though - I had a girlfriend called Sarah, an identical twin who had yet to discover the evil joys of being an identical. We were boyfriend and girlfriend because we were assigned to be by a catch and kiss game the day it snowed in Burnie. Chase her, some guy I only knew as aren't you the kid with the giant head said. And so I did. And I ended up with a girlfriend. But it didn't mean I didn't hang out and stalk Pippa a lot. Some1ne pulled her hair 1nce. I was mortified. I didn't have that kind of suave sophisticated repartee with women. My relationship with Sarah was pretty easy to manage - she liked silver crayons, I liked silver crayons, great, let's get married. Easy as. Pippa, to my eternal detriment, found He-Man and the Masters of the Universe "boring" - I could not be with some1ne who failed to find my theory on why Ju-Jitsu was a much better action figure than Stratos fascinating. It was only in the depressing break of Grade 3hree that I found out, sadly, that Sarah did not find it fascinating either. She was just faking it. Luckily, I actually hated silver crayons. Oh my vengeful flourish when I drew my first castle that year with a burnt Sienna crayon. I feel as though everything I've ever learned about relationships I knew by the first 2wo weeks of Grade 3hree...the girls change, the likes and dislikes change, but the Sturm und Drang continues...I think Pippa taught me that word, during a breezy day in 1987 when I had forgotten my cheese sandwiches for lunch, and had to borrow 2 bucks for lunch...thanks, kid with the big head...

So I leave early. The computers at work have all broken. When you try and turn the 1ne out the back on it sounds worse than the 2nd Terence Trent D'arby album. The air conditioner is now spewing wrathful hot air out of its mouth, like a punishment for when we thought it was too cold. I'm going to keep the sticker up, as a sort of ironic motivational tool. I'll worry about all of these things tomorrow. I can't remember if I've ever been on a picnic...damn it, now that's going to bug me all day. There's a kid with a giant monster balloon determined not to get out of the way of the doorway, and his dad has weird purple bloated legs, like cankles but through his whole legs. It's all I can do not to stare. Why wear shorts in that case? Self confidence I guess? All least 3hree different people today have told me I'm keeping them sane or they are the reason I come to work. I come for the chocolate biscuits and the comfortable sense that I don't have to try very hard to do well. Not admirable but honest. I'm able to dodge the traffic because I'm leaving early - I'd have a nanna nap if I didn't have to pick up the groceries. I thought, rather proudly, I could fang it through the traffic, not realising that yes, there would be less traffic on the road, but more trucks, road works and slow moving objects with oversized on them. I thought I could fang it through the grocery buying but instead am stuck behind slow moving pensioners and bored women, some of whom have oversized on their pants label. When I get home, my mailbox is stuffed with junk mail. One of the letters promises to give me utter inner peace - as long as I send 19.99 to the appropriate address and ring a hotline. I throw it away - I doubt they could help some1ne who hasn't slept properly since 1984 because he can't get his brain to stop thinking for even a moment. I throw my meagre single man food scraps onto the table along with my keys, and sit quietly in my chair, while my DVD player turns itself on without a single action from me, and begins playing an episode of Entourage I don't even remember owning, the gentle hum of bad acting soothing me to sleep...

Tomorrow, as they say, will be another day...

Astute observers are saying there may be no more

It's a chaotic post modern kind of Friday in the shackled to my life suburban shopping centre - the shoppers have rejected the conventions of queuing and polite behaviour in a child like rush to the shopping counter. An old Italian woman simply brushes past me to the Banjos queue in Post Panini haste, and is served first, leaving me to exist in impotent middle class fury. She has so much hairspray on her head that I hope the left over smoky breath of the fat lumbering girl serving her doesn't cause some kind of combustible reaction. Children free from going to school run freely into everyone’s shins and shopping trolleys, under no supervision at all from dis-interested smoking parents who are equally dis-interested in the sign that tells them not to smoke. Someone cue up Simba. There are larger ladies swinging their flesh freely in the breeze, in hotpants and tube tops, putting a Carolee Schneemann piece of performance art to shame with their muffin tops and other analogies between flabby skin over fabric and bakery items still yet to be defined. Anarchy has descended somewhere around the Sushi bar, as two old men in suspiciously matching pullovers begin pushing and shoving each other - the impassive implacable Japanese girl behind the counter simply stares at them, her face not even flickering for a moment. I eventually get served in the eye of this bubbling suburban storm of domestic impatience by the blonde indifferent member of staff. It's a strange detail I notice that she never blinks - I don't know why I notice these things. The arguing feisty pensioners have to be separated by their wives, the cause of their argument unknown. They are simply swinging wrinkly fists at each other without words. The Japanese girl simply ignores them and wipes down her counter. The unblinking blonde disappears into the kitchen seconds after selling me my baguette, and the Italian lady returns to the counter to complain about her coffee, pushing past a harried single mother on her mobile phone. She raises the bar for middle class impotent fury by letting out a harmless tut, and then doing absolutely nothing about it...I myself take a bite of my baguette, and count to three, in anticipation of a small child crashing into my shins...I don't even get to two...

There's a tension inside my workplace when I get back from lunch. We've put the Xmas drinks list on the fridge. They are all tiptoeing around who they want to invite and are trying to keep it quiet from certain people - the girl with the mod haircut for instance. My ex ironic girlfriend isn't talking to me. I have this feeling in my guts we'll end up scrapping in the pub car park during Xmas drinks. I might have to drink Diet Coke. My workplace is also anarchic - 1ne of our workmates has gone home early and left us short. I have on my desk a card she sent me at the height of our relationship. It sits next to a bumper sticker I'll never affix to the back of my car. I still haven't figured out which of us has ended up the Regine Olsen of the relationship, but I'll get to the bottom of it 1ne day. There's a man twice the size of Everest standing blocking out the doorway. He's got 2wo giant vats of water for our drinking machine, and a stack of forms to sign. His beard looks like it could house small animals and his face heaves with the anger and stress that will 1ne day kill him. You could connect his veins and form a pattern if you so decided to. He eventually says can someone sign these forms please, emphasising the word please in a way that in this particular recap should cause me to use Caps Lock. The weird thing is his voice is uncharacteristically squeaky and camp. Maybe it was stress, maybe that's how he normally talks, but it makes me giggle out loud that this giant bearded distance cousin of Giant Haystacks talks like he's sucked the living breath out of a helium balloon. I turn to tell my ex ironic girlfriend what's happened, but then I remember...oh that's right. Can't do that. Instead I eat a Milky Way, let the little moment of poignancy pass me by, and type it into an Instant Message to someone who never replies. The silence at work is killing me right now. Still, mustn't ask how she is...can't go back now. Gotta be big...

It's Saturday now. I've mostly been putting posters up on the wall celebrating Collingwood’s Premiership and putting songs on my IPOD today. Free of emotional baggage, I've essentially reverted to the life of a teenager again. I'm even wearing a hooded top with an unidentified stain and eating Weetbix from a bowl, just like the old days. This does also mean I have to go shopping for 1nce on my own - I don't think collectible jars of Isnack 2.0 and 2wo cans of Red Bull are going to get me through the weekend. My local shopping centre has taken down the advert wall, which I hadn't notice before. Essentially next to the wonderfully named Cyber Hair - that's my local hairdresser, surprisingly free given the name of robots, but full of vapid blonde frustrated "hair technicians who couldn't care less what you are doing on the weekend but ask anyway - there was an abandoned shop. For the life of me I can't remember what shop it was. Maybe Trax, the last Tasmanian dying ember of the record shop spark. Anyway, the wall was soon covered in a strange collage of fliers, advertorials, those little rental ads or tutorial offers with the little bit at the bottom you pull of, or 1nce I saw a note that just said "Susan call me". It was on a post it note between a missing dog ad and some1ne offering adult services, as they used to quaintly call it in the Advocate back on the North West Coast. Sadly, they cleared it the other week. Sure, the new wall is sleek and shiny and futuristic - I'm sure the people at Cyber Hair approve - but like Phillip Johnsons Glass House, a tidier look doesn't make it functional. The loss of the tattered wall of scattered moments in people’s lives doesn't sit well with me, but I suspect I mourn alone as I push my shopping trolley mournfully around smoking hairdressers and bewildered pensioners eating Milky Bars. I should approve far more, having made my own life less cluttered, but somehow, I can't bring myself to applaud anything that promotes the sleek over the shambolic...

Inside my local Target, two red-shirted store workers are loading wrestling figures onto the shelf. I'm reading a book about some footballer whose life I'm sure was really interesting, but not interesting enough to read about after the exchange of money for his interesting story. One of the workers is middle aged, blonde, with hair painted and dipped in blonde, lipstick attached surgically to her mouth, and a smile of genuine sweetness. The other one is young, with soaking wet hair, a frantic pace to his work, and a hatred of the in store music. The plastic wrestling figures have no opinion on any of this, lifelessly and silently placed on shelves without complaint. The footballer’s life story continues to kill a few minutes in my lunch break. He has some strong opinions on The Hangover apparently. The blonde woman isn't particularly interested in stacking wrestling figures on a shelf; she's more of a supervisory figure, putting her head around the corner any time a customer appears to ask them if they need help. None of them ever do, and she walks back to her post slightly defeated. The wet haired boy continues to stack and complain about the music, throwing the wrestling figures onto the shelf with reckless abandon. He complains so much about the music I try and identify it myself. It's some generic R&B, the type made by a singer whose name you won't remember in a year’s time. Just as I turn towards them again, to express some sort of visual glance of solidarity to his point of view, the two workers are holding hands, surreptitiously, like first daters struggling to work out how such a thing had happened. It's only for a brief moment, a little mutual smile and then it's gone. I wonder if it's a sudden realisation for them - it deserved better than to be sound tracked by Taio...Bruno...whatever one it is - but it's there. I wish them well as I walk off directly into a pram pushed by an unhappy looking Muslim woman. She offers the most insincere of apologies, and we keep walking in opposite directions - the CD playing skips erratically at that moment, violently, hissing from the PA like an angry stuttering snake. It's to my interest only, as no one else even seems to notice, let alone seem to care...

I go home to a free uncluttered life, and the obvious detriment to it - nothing to do but have a Nanna nap. I think most of you know me well enough by to know if this is a positive or a negative...

By 1978 the phrase was in use in print...

It's Show Day today in Hobart. I don't like the Hobart Show, it lacks the muddy omnipresence of the Burnie show in the local community, but I enjoy the day off. It means I've avoided a day in traffic and not had to solve the problems of my ex ironic girlfriend and her will I won't I stand off with life. I'm being harsh - the traffic isn't that bad. It means that essentially I can do what I want, although this has generally meant sleeping a lot, eating cereal from a bowl and talking to my Dad on the phone. Since I don't have to worry about emotional dramas, my mind has become a lot clearer. I sat on my front deck today almost like an old man on the porch, sans banjo and moonshine, but swinging back and forth on my hammock nonetheless in simplistic stillness. My Dad is alone in his house at the moment because Mum is in Melbourne. He's pottering around the house cursing the AUSTAR people for not putting on more worthwhile than old episodes of Open All Hours. Since my football team won the Premiership and My Dads teams have all been, to use an un erudite word, shite, he's been claiming the most minor of victories in things like fantasy sports or betting competitions and bringing round certificates to show he's beating me. He's currently down at the shops - I bet he's got on his blue tracksuit trousers, wondering why our local supermarket makes you take a number to buy a salmon cutlet when there's no 1ne else in the line. I know it makes him mad. Being devoid of emotional responsibility, I'm able to slip into the most comfortable of sleeps. My hammock is 1ne of my prized possessions in life - a personal reward to myself. In true single man style, I can spread out and enjoy myself on days like this - when Mum is in Melbourne, Dad is able to do the same, sit up with his pint of Guinness yelling at various A League soccer players for being horrendously rubbish and not have to switch off 1/2lf way through to watch something on the Crime Investigation channel. Even though we are in different homes, we are both contented today. No work, no traffic, no problems...although Dad craves physical space though, I crave emotional space, and in a very true sense our wishes today are being utterly fulfilled...

Although my Mum and Dad and I have an exceptionally close relationship, it hasn't always been easy. My Dad is quite an idiosyncratic individual. To make a point he will go to extraordinary lengths. For instance, during a large part of my teenage years he thought I was appallingly lazy. He was right of course - the fact I couldn't even rouse enough anger to argue the point probably proved him right. To prove this point, he would wake exceptionally early in the morning - sometimes around 7even in the morning - to get up and mow the lawn. When we lived in 1ne particular house in Burnie, mowing the lawn was like hiking casually around the North Face of the Eiger. Throw in that our lawn mower was essentially a petrol powered Fisher Price prototype, just a modification away from blowing bubbles instead of cutting any grass, and it was no easy task. It would have relatively easy even in our perpetually arguing are you sure you don't have any homework fraught relationship to assign me, as a pent up but home bound teenager, to get me to mow the lawn. However, to prove his point, he would get out and mow the lawn out of nothing but sheer old man spite. He would push his pasty white creaky Scottish old man body around the cliff faces and avoid the feral neighbourhood dogs and children who would terrorise him with barks and spittle flecked abuse. Having cut the grass to within an inch of its life - my Dads scorched earth approach to lawn mowing left it as barren and bereft as a marine drafted in for a 1/2lf cut - he would be close to exhaustion. Weeds would be piled into the corner like the end of Platoon. All that was left was barren desert and, since we were Scottish, absolutely no beauty was acceptable. At which point he would emerge into the kitchen and revive himself with self satisfaction and orange juice. I would then have the temerity to wake at, say, 8ight O'clock, and he would say this proved I was lazy since he had spent an entire morning pushing the Fisher Price lawnmower even without the aid of Sherpa’s or an oxygen mask. Had I been a sleepwalker I dare say he would have been out there at 3hree in the morning. He did whatever it took to win my Dad...

The most infuriating thing about my parents growing up was their approach to arguing. My Dad would often simply stop an argument to declare "he had won" and would argue illogical conversational avenues simply to get to victory. My Mum came from a family of 13teen, so she had to be sharp. Her tack would be to remember ideological points from an argument 5ive months previously and re-hash them like a skilled debater. She was 1nce told by 1ne of my aunties that 30ty was, like, ancient, and so, like, she waited a whopping 14teen years to send that aunty a card that was covered from brim to rim in the word ancient in a variety of fonts. Arguing with them on a unified front was an impossible task. Especially with my non confrontational teenage rebellion of not telling them anything that was going on in my life. They found me a frustrating curiosity - almost like a scruffy flatmate or lodger - at times rather than a son. I know that 1nce we had a huge argument about maths homework which threatened to become a UFC style knockout battle, simply because I wouldn't explain my marks to them. I can still see my Dads angry face as he put my copy of Sensible Soccer in another room where I couldn't get it. We got through it though - just. There was a clear and unambiguous apathy to me in my teenage years that they couldn't penetrate. I would collect TAZOs endlessly to a full set but not sit down and study for an exam. I can't even explain some things myself to be honest. Compared to the rest of Dads family, we've been perfectly normal, but there's a factual distance in my family. There are still so many things they don't know about me. I just never found talking to them easy - if it was about sport or music, easy. I'm just reticent to talk to them about anything important, perhaps lest I lose an argument or hear something I don't want to. They say they just want me to be happy - that's all they've ever said. Be happy. Today, I am happy though. I can at least trust my parents to be there - they've never, oh I don't know, pulled a gun on me - and I think that's as good as can be expected. Dads on the phone from the supermarket. He doesn't know where the pasta aisle is. Weird thing with my parents - terrible at directions, wonderful at remembering slights...my Dad still hasn't got over the electronic soccer debacle of 91...

Dad leaves the phone call midway salmon cutlet purchase. He hates the girl behind the counter at Woolworths - he thinks she's a snob. He might write a letter to management. He wrote a letter 1nce to a Scottish soccer journalist and got in return a 5ive page hand written reply. He thought it was patronising. I leave him to get home for an episode of Ironside. Would a normal son say Dad I've got this girl at work and...maybe, but it's too late, we're not a revelatory family. He goes home to make sausages bang on time and then have his customary nap. I haven't moved beyond the hammock all day except to read a book about how faux over optimistic attitudes have destroyed a generation of Americans. The kids next door are arguing about something. I think they were trying to see if a bike could do a stunt and jump over a glued together pile of fruit boxes or something. The ginger kid with the scrunchy face is the optimist who thinks he can turn into Kingston’s equivalent of Evil Knievel while his friend, a little ratfink kid with a little ratfink tail coming out of his head seems entirely to consist of a 1ne word vocab - that 1ne word being dunno. Every time the ginger kid tries to coax some sort of enthusiasm for their stunt based project - projecting future dreams of YouTube glory or, I don't know, a lolly snake from Mum - the ratfink kid simply says dunno. Eventually the ginger kid storms inside, turns on a retro Air Jordan sneaker and says to the ratfink kid you don't believe in anything, why don't you try harder - it's an insult that is lost on the ratfink kid who simply shrugs, lost for words. I guess sometimes it's easier to be the sceptic than the fighter. The ratfink kid picks up his bag and walks over the pool, looking at his own reflection in the mirror with a confused look on his little ratfink face. With an empathic loudness I never associate with him he says a different word to dunno. Dickhead. He just says it out loud, the object of the word unclear - his former friend, himself? Sometimes it's impossible to tell who you should really berate. Too young for emotional complexities he then cannonballs into the pool and proceeds to beat himself over the head with a pool noodle. Too old for emotional complexities, I let my mobile phone ring off the hook, as I fall deeply into blissful public holiday afternoon slumber...

I wake up craving a salmon cutlet of course, but the hassle to get 1ne, frankly, is far too difficult...

Ennui (Directed by Chuck Leal)

Its 9ine am in a suburban Tasmanian shopping centre. I feel even more het up than usual from a snaking conga line of traffic gridlocked all the way back into the city, which left me alone with my thoughts and a CD of songs I don't even like anymore. It's hard to know which of those things frustrated me more. A woman is sitting at the Internet kiosk watching a clip of her grandson winning a sack race at a randomly assembled school sports carnival. It's hard to know if either the subject or watcher will ever be that happy again. The bogan girl with the tattoos in Banjos has been preparing my breakfast this week because I've struck down with a serious bout of ennui - tea leaves may thwart those who court catastrophe, but I can't even be bothered buying the tea leaves in the first place. I wish I didn't feel so flat. I don't work at the East German Labor camp version of our workplace with targets, meetings and inspirational videos, but I still need something to aim for. I'm a product of my nation - things are going OK, so claim the predictability is bringing you down. The bogan girl asks me if I want my usual - succour for my torpor from a bogan. How fitting. Every day feels exactly the same at the moment. I can even predict the Banjos staff movements, even though this is a new workplace. If the blonde 1ne with the ponytail is there she'll pretend to slice bread and ask some1ne else to serve. If the fat girl with flour on her fingers is there, she'll lumber up to serve slowly so some1ne beats her to it. The bogan girl will mention the weather...yes, it is a lovely day...yes, it is cold outside...yes, the hurricane did destroy my house...the bogan girl is smiling the demented smile of those with nothing but time in her life. I like her happiness, but her tattoo is a mess. You can only see it if she stacks something on the bottom shelf. It looks like a child’s finger painting effort - it's pretty much translates from Chinese for can I get a refund on this. And yes, I will have my usual. Damn it's delicious allegedly freshly made by fat girls with floury fingers but really mass produced taste...

The new girl at work is planning to ask some1ne in another office out. Apparently he makes her weak at the knees. I don't think I've ever made anyone weak at the knees. My old netball playing girlfriend said I made her feel safe. I said I don't know if it was a compliment, to be compared to a fire extinguisher or a smoke detector. Thus begun our long standing argument about how she could never say anything nice to me. Good times, precious memories. The new girl has the demeanour of some1ne who smiles all day then goes home to eat crackers and cry. I'm obsessed with her fake laugh. Not obsessed enough to ask her out of course. Sometimes in the office they talk about girly things and there's not much I can do to join in. I don't have anything to contribute to discussions about inter relationship mutual waxing or medieval sounding medical check up procedures. The worst thing about this office - perhaps the main reason for the ennui right now - is they all hate their boyfriends and none of them will leave them. 1ne stands outside the office at night in an essential kidnapping to make sure they go home together, 1ne bought Internet porn with her credit card, another 1ne has just got another girl pregnant. I just smile now - I can't save the world. I can only recommend songs for a heartbreaking mix tape. The other girl at work - the single 1ne - has given herself a mod haircut and spends all day long on the Internet looking at pictures of Lady Gaga. Essentially, I'm out of conversational options today. That is beyond the staples of office life - can't believe how quick today has gone, can't believe how slow today has gone, the invention of amusing office nicknames, that kind of thing. A redheaded woman with painfully thin watery eyes is waiting for her appointment. She's sitting almost rocking with rage, her eyes flicker and dart back and forth angrily as if she's trapped in some horrible never ending hell based tennis match. Not at us, but at her husband. It's not possible for me to feel basic human empathy some days. I wish I could, but I'm just too flat. I wonder if it would help if I walked past eating my Kit-Kat and said something about how quick the day has gone...

The air conditioning - defying all logical thought processes - has decided to now pump out nothing but hot air into our workplace. This after we had been excessively cold in the depths of winter and a man with a blotchy face told us it was essentially our fault for, I don't know, being near it. I press my face into my hands and pull 1ne of those faces people pull when they want other people to notice that they are tired. As hard as I've worked all day was editing a letter from my ironic girlfriend to the Tax Office. She hadn't spelled office correctly. I gently changed it. Eventually my quest to have every1ne notice I'm tired spills into outright saying gee I'm tired. A drunken man in a baseball cap is sitting cross legged in 1ne of our ergonomically structurally sound chairs awaiting his appointment. He doesn't appear soothed by the soothing music soothingly piped into the office. He also has a stack of papers so thick and bulging that it looks like he's about to attend the Treaty Of Rome. He drops them in an inevitable drunken manner, scattering them to the forewinds in a blur of paper and panic. He starts swearing really loudly. I study him to try and work out the exact problem, but give up quickly when he catches my inspecting gaze. The new girl goes out to help him, which is nice of her. It's only then I realise that, last week, a similar man had dropped all his papers all over the place and the new girl helped him pick them up - great, now even the interesting programs are repeats. I quickly go back to eating my Kit-Kat. No 1ne else in the office is moving. It's a sea of weary faces and indifferent expressions. In my supervision role, I should say something inspirational, but what's the point...too damn hot. The drunken man disappears into a frosted glass office for his date with destiny. The woman with watery eyes comes out of the other office, kicks 1ne of our ergonomically structurally sound chairs in frustration, and then disappears. No 1ne moves a muscle. Just that kind of day really...

I've spent the week at least doing something different. I've pushed back from my ironic girlfriend. It's just not going to work out - I found out today in casual conversation that her Dad 1nce chased her with a gun for an unspecified reason. When I go to my memory bank of parental neglect stories it's the time I had just taken the skin off my neck - long story - and my Dad told me off for asking the school nurse for another Tik-Tok biscuit. I like to chide him that maybe since I took the skin off my neck a pink Tik-Tok biscuit wasn't out of the question. There were no guns in our household - my Dad chased me round the house rubbing Manchester United victories in my house, that was about it. We're just far too different - our relationship had essentially become a series of shock and awe revelations on her behalf of problems I couldn't fix. Hell, my main concern today was trying to work out my favourite track off the 1st Britney album, I'm not sure that qualifies me to comment on the dying embers of some1nes marriage. I've run out of re-assuring words, I can't fix the world as I said and thus I've run out of things to say. Today I didn't send her any kind of instant message of support - there, there's your modern parting of the ways. I don't think I'm cut out for modern relationships anyway if the stories of inter relationship mutual waxing are anything to go by. She later tells some1ne in the office she's leaving her husband, who is of course standing outside waiting to kidnap her. This is now not my problem - she says tell me I'm doing the right thing. I shrug and say I don't know. My main priority, now I've made this decision, is pretty much to head off into the sunshine and try and work out why my Internet connection is so horrendously awful. She disappears into the metaphorical and literal distance as I climb into my car. The new girl heads in the direction of the office where the heartbreaker works to work her charms, and the cleaner pushes a mop mournfully around the tiled floor of our office with a back aching expression, all alone. Frankly, I know that look. It's the look you pull when you want people to know you are tired...I invented that look...I'd ask her how quick and or slow she thought the day had gone, but ya know, I've done enough listening for 1ne day...

Incidentally - Born To Make You Happy. Now that is a tune...

4our Scenes from a Rainy Hobart Friday

It's Friday afternoon in a Tasmanian suburb. The rain gently coats the pensioners outside with something to complain about, and my lunch break is fading from me all too quickly. The problem with lunch breaks, to purloin the old vaudeville joke about something else entirely, is that you never remember the great 1nes. I'm inside the claustrophobic narrow catacombs of a suburban newsagency. A man with glasses and a receding hairline is blocking my path. He has the beady eyes of a gargoyle and the critical faculties of the pickiest type of restaurant critic. His wife is a small, stooped man, with a ginger mullet and the air of some1ne who's listening skills were killed by depression sometime about the Fraser years. She has a stripy bag that contains nothing but oranges, and is idly flicking through a knitting magazine in the 1/2lf hearted way some1ne idea rich but time poor will always do - she'll start knitting tomorrow she says to herself, she promises herself mentally. I empathise - I'd do lots more writing if only the quality of programs on AUSTAR wasn't so consistently high. The man is cleaning his glasses of rainwater and blocking the path of several other middle aged men killing time on their lunch break. He then flicks through a book rack of autobiographies, holding them up and pointing out loudly how little the various authors had done in their lives to deserve an autobiography. He thrusts 1ne such tome from a reality TV star or football right in his wives face and says that he has lead a more interesting life than said author. His wife doesn't even react. She just stares sadly and quietly at the stained and matted carpet until he finishes speaking. Meanwhile, over at the Tattslotto counter, a man in poncho - remember, you can't be unhappy in a poncho - is pontificating to a young girl in purple eye shadow about his system for winning the lottery. Apparently it's all in the kid’s birthdays and in the stars. She says in a soft bogan voice how many times have you won the lottery? He looks awkwardly at her, picks up his tickets, and walks away without saying a word. Outside, the rain continues to bounce off the ground, bounce and then dissipate in a torrent down a gutter, like the faded dreams of so many suburban bustling shoppers. My dream for the moment is to avoid getting soaked, and for a moment I wonder if the tattslotto ticket buyer has a system to avoid being mugged for his poncho...my surroundings, as it where, are leading me to more and more grim thoughts...

It's 5ive pm at my work place. My computer screen is off, and I'm standing around a white table covered in magazines. A man with a patchy beard, akin to, say, a bass player from Dr Hook, brings in about 5ive posters a week to work, all of which are advertising upcoming events. I'm staring at the rusty, creaky old visage of Col Elliott, 1ne of those comedians critics sometimes say are "holding up a mirror to challenge political correctness" - he does Chinaman impressions in other words. I'm engaged in this 1ne sided staring contest with Col because I work in a very girly workplace and a very girly conversation finishing is my last conversational hurdle to negotiate before I go home - already this week, I've discovered that all naked men are essentially laughable and funny looking, so I know my expect every day of my workplace life to contain some sort of Cosmo revelations. The bonding glue between the women in my workplace is they all have kids and all wish they didn't. I've become some sort of conversational totem pole to them because I quite openly don't want kids, so they keep asking my opinion but I'm not really listening, since I'm trying to remember the line in a song...battleship of baggage and...how does it go? And I'm also trying to send txt msgs to 1ne of my friends to try and cheer him up. He sits at a desk in a different office, 1ne that has meetings all the time, high pressure targets, inspirational videos to watch and a manager who runs the office with an iron fist and not much encouragement. In contrast our office is eating lollies, and our only morning meetings are held around the radio trying to win a garden voucher from a local DJ. I'm trying to keep his spirits up but it isn't easy. My Mum is somewhat bewildered by my reputation as a good listener. She thinks whenever some1ne is unburdening to me my mind is at the MCG imagining I'm playing for Collingwood or wondering what the 3hrd track on Withershins is. In most cases, that's true, but in this instance, I'm genuinely trying to help. When I say I'm going home, he trots off to another soul-less meeting in an oak panelled office to be berated...again. There's nothing I can do - I leave the txt unanswered, and go outside, for no other reason than to avoid our over chatty cleaner, lest I ask for hours on end when the hell she's going to some dusting...

It's later that night in a quiet Hobart pub. In the corner a black haired female singer is in cover version hell - her only audience are 2wo men inappropriately aged to wear baseball caps requesting Holy Grail endlessly with squeaky hoarse voices. She tries to engage our table in some banter just for something else to do, but we're a little distracted. We've got a list in front of us to organise Xmas drinks - who's in, who's out, as if we're organising an Oscar’s party, such is the exclusivity and passion of the debate. At 1ne of the poker machines a man with frizzy ginger hair sits down with a bucket full of coins, to try and win his fortune. He stares longingly at the machine as if it's the answer to all his problems, and then begins the process of falling victim to the slavish rhythm of the poker machines noises. Outside the window taxi drivers lean against their unused cabs, standing in the rain setting the world to social rights. Soon they will disappear into the night, taking with them passengers who will become part of the original social networking chain, and have opinions on all matters pressed deep into their conscious whether they like it or not. The singer takes a break to get her free drink for the night, and slowly walks up to the bar shrugging gently almost in apology that no 1ne is into her singing. The gambler truly doesn't know when to hold them, and returns to change a 2nd bucket of coins from the indifferent bar stuff. It's only later I realise that when we went into The Central that we sat at our "usual table" - we had our usual conversations, and although the singer and the gambler have changed faces, not much else has in the intervening years. Should I crave more from my existence or cherish my fortune in consistency, in friends and situations I could count on? Such questions probably drove ancient philosophers nuts, although none of them were distracted by the clunking and clicking of a never winning poker machine, the acoustic sounds of a slowed down cover version of Come Together, the whirling thrill of free passed around the bar snacks, wondering which Taxi driver in the queue has the most right wing opinions and debates about the 3hrd member of Bananarama. Everyone looks at me - Keren I say. They now I'll know. I know they know I'll now. It's come from familiarity....we've been here before, and we'll be here again...that's just how it always will be...

It's late at night now. The cold and black of Hobart night-time are overwhelming, a star poking its head out of the darkness providing the only illumination. A suited and booted stranger who tried to make our acquaintance has already been discarded, lost in transition when his conversation threatened to become obnoxious. He stumbled off to go and annoy some1ne else with his opinions on finances a long time ago, now no more than a footnote in an anecdote. I'm picking bits of fish out of my teeth and waiting for a taxi as the rain stumbles down from the heavens in awkward, ragged patterns, chilling my bones and making it difficult to check my txt msgs. Some bridesmaids are fleeing Irish Murphy’s in a blur of angel wings and wedding dress fabric, taking another fleet of taxis far away, and complaining about the cold. My jumper is by necessity thin and boring to make sure I was allowed into pubs, but the payback to this is freezing cold. Cold and dark, like those claustrophobic Ayrshire mornings trying not to get a punch in the head from older bullies. I think if I hang round long enough in the dark some1ne might attack me sometimes, the consequence of having a mother who hasn't wised up to the methods of modern media to create fear in the populace. She always thinks if I walk for even a moment, something is out there, and it's seeped into my brain through osmosis. Everything has a consequence I guess. I drop my phone in a puddle and a passing drunk tuts so loudly it disturbs the Gods. I don't know why my Samsung abuse has so irked him, but perhaps it's just his excuse to have a go at me. As it turns out, he's tutting at some1ne else entirely, an obnoxious brunette girl calling everyone and sundry the C word. My phone has survived the bruising encounter with the pavement, and I jump into a taxi, leaving behind their forthcoming fracas to another anecdote chronicler. As my phone recovers, a txt msg comes up on my screen - some1nes leaving their husband at Xmas. Everything has consequences. The rain lashes down hard on the ground, as my taxi driver turns, looks at me and says "rough night huh?"...

Articulacy leaves me as I grunt, fall asleep, and let the gentle hum of Katy Perry’s ongoing battle with poor radio reception send me home to bed...

Subject to the same forces of compression

It's Midday in a suburban Tasmanian shopping centre. There's a malfunctioning alarm system ringing throughout the shopping centre, as annoying as a well flicked ear, pounding its rhythmical warning beat to all and sundry. No 1ne seems to notice at all, pensioners amble to and fro, Chinese cooks fry and torture assorted dim sims, and a newsagent stares blankly out her window, dreaming of home time. A procession of old women and harried single mothers sit on the padded seats in front of the Internet kiosks, ignoring the signs that say they can't sit there. Challenged, they may claim war service or an ache that predicts a storm is coming. They certainly aren't moving for any social media checking teenagers with hats and pants in different directions with girlfriends who's name they won't remember in 2wo weeks time. Outside Banjos, an old lonely man is holding up the queue talking to a tattooed cheerful bogan girl behind the counter. The rest of the new Banjos staff I've encountered balance out her cheerful nature with a series of huffs, puffs and unhappy faces. They make sure that even the gift of a free house cake is given with the gift of grump. Somewhere outside this shopping centre, a protagonist in the maelstrom of indifference and non evacuation activity in the middle of an evacuation drill looks downward at his shiny shoes and see his own battle weary face in the reflection. He's been evacuated and stands divorced from his IPOD and his increasingly promising sandwich. He has in his pocket PK chewing gum acquired from the exchange of money for goods and services. He has to be light on his feet lest some1ne crash a shopping trolley into his legs. For reasons already forgotten he isn't speaking to 1ne of his work compatriots. Or she isn't speaking to him. She's under the pump, harried, harassed, stalked and lacking sleep. He's annoyed because that's what he gets like, especially when he's 1/2lf way eating a sandwich when an alarm tells him to stop. In time, they will patch up their differences for the sake of office harmony and exchange Quality Street chocolates brought in by a crazy lady who used to work for Cadburys - so she says. We're thinking lately we're eating stolen goods. For the moment though, our fussin and feudin co-workers are standing outside listening to a cacophonous symphony of repetitive wailing, staring at the ground, and trying to engage in the lifelong never ending competition of who can pull the angriest face after a fight for spurious pointless reasons...it's what makes us human...

My kindergarten teacher went on strike when I was 4our. When I passed the gates on a daily basis I would say to my Mum "what's going to happen to all us kids!" - given 1/2lf a chance I'd have lead the kids in a counter protest based entirely around what this was doing to our educational prospects. Back then I was tipped for glittering intelligentsia based success by the Penguin glitterati, also known as the milk bar owners, although they would also say my inability to tie my shoelaces would hold me back in the real world. They gaveth and tooketh away in the Penguin glitterati. It would have been wasted on my class - 1ne girl smelled entirely of tissues and dribbled on the Lego, and couldn't tilt her head properly, and she was the thinker of the class. She said profound things like sandwiches were better than giraffes and we would ponder if that was true. Mostly it was a theatre of cruelty kind of kindergarten however, the scrambles for the burnt sienna crayon in the morning particularly bothersome. I learned a trick that if you didn't replace the crayon at the end of the day you could just take it home and use it again the next morning. I've often wondered if my stash of stolen Crayola crayons and the cost of replacing them somehow contributed to the budget crisis that meant the teachers couldn't afford to be paid more, in a sort of butterfly flapping its wings causes the world to end way. I think the girl smelling of tissues eating the chalk didn't help either. So I was walking past the school with my Mum 1ne Sunday, and in a rare fit of parental indifference - my Mum was hardcore on the parental protection, not only calling our local bully in Scotland "Moggy" an "ugly wee bastard", but making my hold my legs on the Puffing Billy when I was 10en, so any time I was off the leash I remember it - she left me to press my face against the bars and stare aimlessly into a classroom that could be occupied by kids the following day if there was no strike...by me. I used to love school...and as I pressed my little 4our year old face to the bars, a girl called Saskia Vandermast walked past in the opposite direction, screwed up her face and said "you're SOOOOOOOOOOOO ugly..."

Ah, Saskia Vandermast. She had the jaw of a female boxer and was the first person I ever saw with corn-rows. She had a tooth that looked like Albania. She was the first person I ever remember that said I was ugly. I looked at her as she walked off into the distance towards the general store owned by the Scottish guy who we later found had "connections" and could get us supplies. Ugly? Me? Who was I to be told I was ugly by a girl swinging a Batman bag and rocking the Yuliya Dovhal look years before it became fashionable. My response to this grievous insult seemed very adult and grown up at the time - I would completely freeze her out of any group activity and every single moment of my life. Yes, that'll do it I thought. And so I did. For the rest of the school year, Saskia Vandermast would ask me for a crayon and she wouldn't get it. Saskia Vandermast would try and join in the games in the sandpit and I would simply leave her to it. She would always scrunch her face up in sad bewilderment, tug at her cornrows and walk off. I think she genuinely had no idea what she did, until 1ne day she just said "I'm sorry for..." and trailed off with a poignancy which didn't really belong in a Kindergarten classroom full of kids pondering whether a teddy bear was better than a badger. I felt really bad about it for a long time. I felt my response to my first conflict situation had been irresponsible and hurtful, especially since other kids - kids whose sole feeling in life was schadenfraude - had taken up the bullying baton. Some1ne once told me the closest they ever came to suicide was when their art gallery exhibition was attended by drunken upper class idiots who had become their fandom. Their work was entirely out of their hands. I empathised. I empathised entirely through the point of view of a 4our year old child trying to put a genie back in a bottle. I vowed on that night - after 4our joints it must be said - that I would learn not to be huffy, to deal with my problems in a more rational way...with that said...

The alarm eventually goes off, apparently due to malfunction, and not due to the usual standard reason the alarm goes round here - interaction with naughty kids with mischievous intent. My IPOD luckily hasn't been stolen by looting mobs of pensioners, my sandwich ends up being full of surprises, none of them pleasant, the chocolates lay uneaten while the staff sum up whether the crazy lady from the Cadbury factory is trying to kill us and normality returns to the office. Although my reaction to the minor infraction that caused the dispute has been pleasingly kindergarten, it doesn't befit the modern workplace. Especially since we got the instant messenger, and every single moment of life is reduced to OMG and LOLs. I put Smoosh on the IPOD to try and drown out the drama. Instead of fighting over burnt sienna crayons, we're pretty much fighting and railing against our own irrelevance most of the day. We're not doing anything important, we're not saving lives, so we have to do something to pass the time. If there was a sandpit in the office it would have a demarcation line in it, a clear line between the popular staff and the unpopular staff. Actually such a thing exists - it's called Xmas Drinks. In the case of Saskia Vandermast, there was never true re-conciliation since I left at the end of the year and she kept her distance from me. In this small office space, we re-conciled our differences, me and the new girl, through the exchange of messages and sweets. There are times it's best to let things go - maturity brings clarity of thought. Smile, shake hands, exchange insincere messages and at the end of the day shake hands and move on. Just like in the manual. On a flickering television screen inside the shopping centre Chilean miners are being pulled to the surface - while slack jawed Tasmanian shoppers gawp and clap - to hug ginger mulleted mistresses. My escape from my work place is far less dramatic - there's no book deal, not ginger mulleted mistress to hug, just a simple escape through the exit door into the afternoon air, past some slack jawed gawkers, leaving behind only another lesson learned in life, and a sad unanswered message from some1ne stuck in a different office, trapped in meeting hell, who envies our ability to leave earlier than him...

Many are prepared to suffer for their art, but never learn to draw. I'm prepared to suffer for my mistakes, but never learn not to repeat them...but now, I can manage them...

The Story Of Carpentry Part 2

I am the creation of an extraordinary series of inter-generational co-incidences. My personality has been the series of a lot of events, some kind, some cruel, some moving, some scarring, some joyous, some bewildering. My sense of humour is affected and created by the theft of a series of jokes from UK comedy shows no Australian has ever seen. I read a series of books that explain extraordinary co-incidences to me or seem to tell me to fix my outlook on life in a particular way to get what I want. I could fill a whole room with these books. No one has ever fully explained to me in simple English that they share the sheer joy of wondering all the co-incidences that made...you. Without some1ne thousands of years ago making goo-goo eyes at someone across an Irish swamp while washing their clothes or trying to steal a potato just to get through the day I wouldn't be here. I find the series of events that brought me to this point of my life so mind altering it keeps me awake some nights trying to remember them.

I don't need drugs, a brief moment of reflection on time and space will generally do it for me.

So, with such a respect for life, you may ask yourself why some of this precious short time on earth that will 1ne day be replaced by infinite peace in the cold embrace of the grave or, should you be other minded, eternal life with all your childhood dogs, is taken up with fixing the lock on a door at work. Of course minutiae won't form the basis of that amusing anecdote the priest or celebrant gets to recall on your funeral day, but a million frustrations may drive you closer to that point. Light is fading outside as I stand watching a bug eyed man in blue overalls trying to twist and contort an immovable lock into a shape that will allow us all to go home. He looks like either the inept chubby gangster who gets shot first in a crime movie or a weightlifter who's about to drop the bar onto his foot. His overalls don't quite fit him, and his hair is receding and retreating from his forehead 1ne curl at a time. He certainly loves locks. He sighs and deeply examines every inch of his work, in super slow motion. I'm bored. I don't share his passion for locks. He's already snapped at the new girl at work, he said something like "Didn't I tell you not to snap the lock back!" - she's new, she shrugs. Maybe he told me. He huffs back to the lock, in a blur of bad skin and little chubby fingers. He's lost the tip of his index finger. I try not to stare, since to ask would be to make polite conversation. The last thing I want to do is delay the crucial work being done on the lock. The really funny thing is when you live at home alone there's really no impetus to get home quickly, but it always feels like there is. The chubby locksmith asks me if I remembered not to slap the lock back. I shrug as well. He sighs from the deepest point of his overalls in disappointment and turns away from me as so many imparters of seemingly obvious wisdom have done over the generations to impudent fools such as myself. There's no point in any further bonding. He works for the rest of the time with us in complete silence. He must feel like Jesus, but with less miracle performing ability, unless the miracle you seek involves you getting home at a reasonable hour...

I've had to fix this lock because the same cabal of people, the same descent of complaints that saw me fix the air conditioner; they made me get this lock fixed. The air conditioner the other day was too warm, instead of too cold. I locked myself away in an office for a while just to listen to some Charlotte Gainsbourg to get away for a while. They still found me. My ironic girlfriend took her jacket off and worked for ages in a short singlet. I don't know if this was a come on - maybe it was. Maybe it was just warm. I can create a linear pattern to how the lock broke - someone twisted it and it didn't work. So some1ne told me and I rang a number that diverted briefly to India, saw me sit on a stool and listen to a series of frustratingly banal muzakical tunes until I was connected back to the country I live in and after the exchange of facts I had booked a man to come and fix the lock and lo and behold here he was. It's pretty easy to draw a flow chart that explains the process of lock being broken to lock being fixed. Any kind of emotive feeling within me I shy away from - ironic girlfriend? Don't mention it. Focus on the lock. Much easier to deal with. The light outside has completely faded by now. A bully is throwing shadow punches at a much smaller kid in the laneway across the road. The only sound is a staticky hiss coming from our increasingly dangerous and violently trembling radio. It makes all songs sound like they've been coming out of an East German cartoon from the 60tys - clanging, clanking, hissing and ultimately sounding nothing like they are meant to. How did I get here, I wonder, as I turn off the Paper clip on Microsoft Word and begin to type. Only 3hree sounds are heard in this quiet office with 2wo Males in it - industry from the worker, hissing from the radio, and me touch typing into an out of date copy of Microsoft Word while time ebbs slowly away from me...but not slowly enough...

I saw my netball playing girlfriend from many years ago outside a lift in 1ne of Hobart’s finest shopping centres the other day. I was my usual indifferent walking through life, and I didn't hear her say my name. I think I was thinking about sandwiches - how rude to interrupt. She has kids now. I don't remember that happening specifically. It just happened. She smiled broadly and hugged me after saying my name for the first time in many years without a swear word prefix. I didn't have much to say - it's lucky that I didn't tut when she accidentally ran her pram over my foot. I think it was accidentally, it might have been for all those times I played ATARI in her attic instead of talking to her about feelings. She disappeared into a crowd of milkshake buyers with her kids pulling at the hem of jeans, making a vague promise to talk on Facebook. We'll never talk on Facebook. She looks old and wise while I'm wearing some sort of retro soccer top paying tribute to the Bravo Juice company as a sponsor. We parted making the kind of awkward stilted small talk couples make on a first date. We went on a date 1nce where she wasn't happy with me for trying too hard. I was bewildered as to why effort was a bad thing. She never had an answer for me. She later looks impossibly miserable as her kid’s career into the shins of the local bookstore matron. The local bookstore matron is large enough that if she stood in the classical wide stance she would block out the autobiography section in an eclipse of nylon stocking. No 1ne would be able to ever get to the hilarious recollections of Ken Sutcliffe if she did so. The kids probably think it's a challenge to career into her legs and live to tell the tale. My old girlfriend looks at me as I walk past later sipping a milkshake. She looks a tiny bit regretful, or just hotted up and frustrated trying to control her rowdy infants. It was inter-generational co-incidences and a mutual love of Beth Orton that brought us together and now here we stood entirely different people with entirely different lives, perhaps with a chance of re-connecting as civilized adults. The moment is brief, and passes quickly. I see an opening in a lift and take it, she has to restrain her rowdier child from throwing Ken Sutcliffe’s memoir into another kids head, and we part without a farewell glance. Maybe I'll send her a message on Facebook after all...if I remember her surname...

The locksmith man leaves. He doesn't say he's left. I only know he's left because there's a stack of forms on a desk that no 1ne will ever read. There's scrawled psychopathic handwriting all over the forms, so maybe that's where he gives us his dire lock based warnings. He just leaves the forms to sign and disappears, leaving behind his silver wrench in a fit of forgetfulness. It hopefully isn't some Cinderellaesque sign that he's my true love. The workman’s code - leave behind a work item for the 1ne you love. Maybe it was for the new girl. She has a stalker who smells musky and wears a baseball cap to the side and Metallica T-shirt ensemble in a signifier that his youth is over but by god he'll go down kicking and screaming. She left a while ago. She's suspiciously happy all the time the new girl in the manner of some1ne who goes home and cries and then steels themselves to a big effort the next day. Her kid ran into my legs and said sorry Uncle Miles the other day. I said that was OK. It took a lot of restraint, since I hate kids, especially out of control running ones aimed at my shins. I click off my work place Instant Messenger - it deletes an entire day of whinging conversation from all and sundry. I turn out the lights with a deft flick of my wrist, and step outside into the night air. For a horrible moment I think the lock is about to devour my key like a hurt man devours the microphone when he sings sad songs at karaoke - but it clicks shut, and in a short walk I'll be in my car, driving through the dark part assorted equally bored car imprisoned strangers, until finally my driveway comes into view, and time comes to relax, far from locks, ironic girlfriends, and any stressful messages flashing on the screen...

Linear, so clear and linear how I got home. So easy to describe. Everything else, of course, I'm just not verbose enough to sum up easily...