I’ve had my bowl of olives.
I’ve drunk my lemon and ginger tea.
I’m halfway through digesting the butterbean and chorizo stew I made earlier (which was nice but didn’t taste as good as the one you made).
I’ve texted you.
I’ve also spoken with B.
And I also dreamt that they were building a huge tower in Manchester, three times the size of The Beetham Tower. It was an awful, miserable, depressingly wet ‘n’ windy day and the tower was swaying in the wind. And I thought, “Surely that’s not normal?” I was watching it through a video camera. Then, like in a disaster film, the tower fell over, crushing half of Manchester beneath it.
Some of the debris had spun through the air and landed about 100 yards away from me, near the Great Northern Warehouse building they’re trying to pimp off as somewhere trendy to develop. After the initial emotion of “Thank fuck that wasn’t me,” passed, I began imagining someone updating The Beetham Tower’s parody Twitter account with a message; something along the lines of, ‘BEETHAM TOWER ANGRY. PUSH OVER BIG TOWER AND CRUSH PUNY HUMANS.’
I wondered whether that was too soon; whether we needed more time to grieve.
I got over it pretty quickly.
I had my bowl of olives.
I texted you.