So I’m cycling to work.
This long concrete rectangular box – stinks of piss and is lined with cigarette butts, broken glass, beer cans, take-out packaging and discarded needles.
I hate cycling to work.
The fear of having to stop and remove a tyre – of having to try to find the puncture, to repair it and start cycling again only to hear a hissing sound and find the wheel grinding to a halt again.
I hate my editing job.
Wading through purple prose, through mistakes in word order and punctuation – such as starting sentences with ‘and’ or ‘but’, not pacing out a sentence with the correct punctuation, incorrect use of singular or plural forms…
Same shit, different day.
Then my world spins in a blur as I tumble through the air; I see stars…
…I wake up, hurting all over; I see the wreckage of my bicycle…
…and I smile.