Pressure.

Your Rhythm Is Your Heartrate.

The tap begins running.

A call from my mother, a scream from outside. My flatmate begs to play cards, and an advert suggests body cream funded by genocide. I look at my phone to check the time and see a video of a man being sawn in half. The sharp caw of a crow, and the gentle fluffing of magpie feathers, as a mother - in fields afar - shields her innocent calf.

Magpies? How many? Will it be sorrow, joy, maybe a girl (?). I rarely see three but, when I do, I tell you.

The boiler shudders and glows red, our taps turning to lead as leaks burst from each crevice. A bill comes and goes, and rent never slows, but I am quite sure I had more money yesterday. The washing machine leaks black fluid, and the plumber speaks in indecipherable tones all through it. My casual smile and sanguine grin do nothing to sate him, for I feel my cracks widen in this localised desert basin.

Sunlight and sweat, the scent of a marshy March, all found in June’s orange gloom. Summer for the lovers and winter for the craven, but I find myself wedged in a tomb. Lying in a maze, caked in malaise, I look for peace in swaying trees, but they all seem diseased.

The tap won’t turn off, dripping and draining, as dew turns to damp, while outside it’s raining. The bus never comes, the plane is delayed, and I watch as a middle aged mum cries in the shade. No one to care, to help, to carry, as she loses her plans to a pale man called Gary.

There was sewage in my last home, darkness in the halls, and mould on my favoured comb. There was water on the floor, a gas leak for sure, and the fire alarm was turned off, on a panel by the door. When we called for a fix, hope never came, and our landlord told us never to call again. There were snails in the kitchen, dead flies buried in our windows, and yet I kept stitching, filling leaks and gaps with sepia mementos.

The tap stops running, and the drip no longer bothers me.

My mother and I speak on sincere matters and joys alike.

I crane my neck to check the alleyway.

I play a game of cards, even if it makes me late.

I do not buy the cream.

I report the video.

I see two magpies: joy.

I reset the boiler, downstairs first then upstairs.

I call the plumber.

I work a few hours.

I wipe the floor.

I open the window and drink some water.

I order a taxi.

I read for a while.

I help her squash her bag into those horrible boxes they use for measuring at the airport. You know them, no? They grin at you, noticing your slightly obtuse suitcase on a “hand-luggage only” ticket. It’s their chance to con you, to take your dreams and stuff them away. An extra £50 or £80 or whatever they fancy that day, an extra chance to cause you dismay. They love your bargaining, your sweaty pushing, as you make every attempt, your eyes gushing. These workers, low paid and decent at heart I’m sure, feel like demons in those moments, dark and impure.

I wash away thoughts of the past, of the sagging in my features and the mildew in my pants. I shake away those memories, of smells and sickness, and think of calm light loosening my stiffness. Each morning now, even as sounds and sensations rock my fragile head, I wake to the sun on my brow, and friends around my bed. Now, that last one is not true; I just thought it might amuse you, to imagine them surrounding me, as if it were my final three, days spent in matrimony, with all my friends to be, my lawful spouses you see. (Why three? Because three rhymes with me, and I like to be, in rhythm with the sea, in some sort of plea, to take back my fucking pee pee poo poo life.)

The tap still runs most days, and it feels easy to lose my way, but I know it’s all temporary. Make a list, know your task, and see each step as closer to the last. I am not great, nor small, but fine just being alright.

So what if I need to make a phone call?