I've just spent the last half hour spinning in circles in the electric office chair I use to move around my flat. I'd been busy with a cup of tea, but I started this twirling lark and got caught up in some kind of temporal vortex. When I was finally spat back into our own dimension, my tea was stone cold. Temporal dislocation can be cruel like that.
It's been two weeks now, fourteen days, fourteen nights. I have counted the minutes. Smashed each new-born second on the head as it clicked forth from my kitchen clock.
It was no big deal at first. A hole so small it couldn't even be seen. But a puncture in the electric scooter I covet - it gets me out of the house, into the shops, the pub, the park - has grounded me for the last two weeks. I am stuck. Alone but surrounded. White flag flapping. Fear rising.
I've been told I'll be set free tomorrow, but these people have lied to me before. These scooter men with their blue overalls and toolboxes. These home helps who wake me every morning and make me breakfast with their 'how are yous?' These so-called friends who come round with their we'll-cook-dinner smiles and I'll just open the wine antics.
Before they do what they all do and I can't and haven't and won't for another 24 hours. They open my front door and go out. Away. Somewhere else...
