I’ve been sat on the edge of the bath for a good half hour now. My bum’s gone a bit numb. I think it’s slowing becoming grafted to the bath. The triangle of sunbeams has shifted its angle of glow from the basin to the space between the door and the towel cabinet. At some point my brain will accept the information it’s been given. But right now I feel the need to mentally catalogue every inch of my bathroom – to see the good, the bad and the ugly of my hotchpotch bathroom. In it I see the story of my unsatisfactory life; the half formed relationships I lose interest in all too quickly (the shelf I started sanding but never got round to finishing), the family I always mean to stay in touch with (the cracked tile I’m always going to replace but never do). My whole body feels a bit numb, as if my blood supply has shifted its directional flow and is focused on just one section of my body. And why am I trapped in my bathroom? I’m trying to add up how many times in my short existenc...
I write therefore I am