So tired

It’s just gone 3am. I’m standing in my kitchen waiting for the kettle to boil and eating cheddar with my left hand as I write with my right. I’m going to have 3 hot Weetabix and fall flat on my face until morning.

Croydon is a long way from Bethnal Green.

My friends had access to a huge abandoned gym in Croydon. They could use it as a store for theatre things that might come in handy one day. What things might these be? Well, the list is endless. Cables, though. Definitely lots of cables. Heavy things. Light things. Lights. Heavy lights. They lost the gym just recently as it was finally bought by a developer. But as luck would have it, Covid chased a business out of a crypt in the green. The theatre folk have moved into the crypt. I put my haulage hat on, grabbed my nephew, and after two pretty full-on days, we have moved all the stuff. I haven’t got much left in the tank to write about it, and despite eventful days my brain has dumped everything but the ability to drive and a vague idea of my name.

I’ve decanted myself to bed. Low water pressure and no shower means stinky Al tonight. I’m probably a bit stronger now. But that’s the sort of thing you say to comfort yourself when weird bits of you hurt. My feet hurt. My fingers hurt. Even my eyes are tired. Cheese was good though. Likely it’ll make for eventful dreaming, but if I hadn’t just bitten into that chunk of cheddar like it was a banana then my dreams would’ve been hungry.

Normally in an average day I get time to stop and write. Two days running I’ve either been driving or carrying every waking hour. Here are some of the people who made the day go quicker. But quick or not, I’ve got nothing left in the can.

Enjoy your day my dears. I’m off to Dreamland on the express train.

Author: albarclay

This blog is a work of creative writing. Do not mistake it for truth. All opinions are mine and not that of my numerous employers.

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