I couldn't do less than snarl at the formica. There were dozens of knife scratches in it, from bread, cheese, tough salami. I rubbed my forefinger, tight, across some of them. The thicker ones gave me embossed slithers of skin. I didn't feel sorry for myself - not over this at least, but just felt the table in this kitchen was the most pathetic part of a truly pathetic orchestra of furniture. At least it was all the same standard - crap.

My sole thought was my life should have begun when there was something worth beginning with.

My finger, with its skin the way it was, was because of the table, was in turn because of the flat I'd lived in for years.

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This small, institutionally calculated flat with its brown wallpapers, the clunking fridge, the uniform-issue honking radio. All this because of some decisions in an office down the road. An office which made decisions based on a bigger mass of concrete four thousand miles away. A fucking decision, For crying out loud - decisions which swept souls aside like a tidal wave - ones that replaced living places, kitchens, tables, and ultimately fingers.

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'You bastards! You sick fucking bastards! These are fingers I used to touch my wife with. These fuckers right in front of me. You didn't stick them on my hand, did you? Did you?'

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I calmed myself by focussing on different objects around me, holding my fingers at different distances from my face and the things around the kitchen. I guess I must have seen all angles of the bottle, in all degrees of focus. It did the job - this soothed me.

Oh well - the vodka needed drinking as sure as the barking dog outside needed beating. There was a decision I didn't need any office for.