It felt like a particularly long week at work this week, it felt a particularly long week at home. I didn’t see Julie (she was too swamped herself) and somehow I failed to go out with any of my friends. I just went home to my flat at the end of the day and endured the odd sense that someone else had been there. That somehow I don’t live by myself anymore, that I now flat--share with somebody I don’t know and have never seen.
I remember reading once about when Sid James was having an affair with Barbara Windsor. That was not a particularly smart move as her husband at the time was Ronnie Knight, the South London gangster. But rather than beat James up, Knight merely broke into Sid’s flat and moved all the furniture around. There was nothing Sid could do about it (he could hardly go to the police about Ronnie Knight), it was just a way of showing how vulnerable Sid and his home actually were. The fact of arriving home and knowing that someone has clearly been there – invading your private space – is hugely disturbing.
Nothing like that has happened with me. In fact I couldn’t put my finger on anything being moved at all, but I just have a sensation that there is something there – someone there – and that they want me to know it.
Probably I should have gone out this week, got out of my head – but one always has to go home, right?
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