These good pants are getting ridiculous.
I call them good pants because they're anything but, simply a pair of Umbro tracksuit bottoms with a rip trailing from the right-hand pocket down to the knee, exposing the inner lining for nobody in the outside world to see.
The fucking state of me, unshaven and ragged, using a cancelled Thursday appointment to watch an old episode of Criminal Minds, racing on BBC2 and the promise of a coffee that I'm too lazy to make.
I should be writing, or I should be drinking, or I should be reading the book that I asked the man about in Dubray last week. I only realised when he picked it from the nearest shelf that it won the Man Booker Prize and, yes, indeed, he had heard of it.
I'm an idiot.
I should be shopping for new good pants, for shoes, for the things that I keep putting off for reasons financial even though work has been kind to me for the last couple of months.
I look at other jobs knowing that my cup runneth fine and I don't operate too well out of comfort. All zeal and nowhere to put it, or too many places to put it, so I keep looking for stories about people who only started success at 35 for some small comfort.
It used to be 30. It used to be 25.
At the very least, the first five words of something brilliant have been known to me for the longest time, but the problem is the next five, and the next five, and the 99, 985 after that, but even as I write this paragraph another imperative jumps into my brain.
'Just fucking write the thing.'
Or, being kinder,
'Give yourself a break.'