The cockroaches come in through the window, that is left open day in, night out. It needs to be open to maintain the air flow in the small room. The room is not actually made for sleeping. An adequate use might be, storage or study. But a study with no intention of being used above the odd bill paying, phone company calling general customer service griping facility.

Tonight, after walking home sweaty and exhausted from a hens night I passed a drunkard in the street. He looked only a little older than me. I smelt him first. Urine. A thin stream trailing from under the body outward toward the road, crawling to a pedestrian crossing. Which came first, the excretion or the stumble downward. Curled around a street light post, sleeping soundly. Happy as pie. The drunkard and his dreams of beds and water, probably.

My bed was covered in undergarments I’d purchased that afternoon. I was attracted to the aerobic style that yet again, is in vogue. Realising none of this would actually serve as practical under-wear, I posed in the mirror and decided I should take up a sport. I felt good. Strong and youthful. Lots of flesh. Plump but when stretched out, I could be skinny. Plump, then skinny, plump then skinny. I remind myself to download some Cindy Crawford. She’s a good one to stretch with.

I try on a singlet and feel a tag tickle my back. It turns out to be a fat cockroach. I see it crawl over my chest in the mirror before I manage to flick it off and on to the floorboards. It makes a tack sound. I shiver. Fucking window. Fucking roaches. I reach for my wet-ones and wipe the filth away.