Spin

The TV in the work canteen this morning was showing a fly-on-the wall documentary about a hospital. A man was having a mole looked at. Two minutes later and he's being operated on while fully conscious, flat on his back and startled eyes wide open looking directly up at the ceiling, most of his torso covered in a racing green coloured sheet, while flanked either side by two professionals under a bright white light. I suspected they were working away on his mole. I thought there was a lot of blood and the big incision unnecessary for a simple mole removal but there you go, I'm sure they knew what they were doing. By the time I got up to leave there was another man standing about, who looked quite jovial and I could sense the white flesh of a bulging belly under his old grey t-shirt and I thought, 'ey up, he's next.

This the third week on the spin. How much tax money you pocketing?

There are three destinations I hear announced when waiting for my train home and every single time I mishear Up Early, Migraine and Poorly.

A couple of nights ago I had a late bath. I shouldn't have really as my cold-state had left me feeling a bit woozy, but still I took the plunge in the hot soapy water and submerged myself up to my neck, and the tiled wall swayed from left to right a little, the grid of the white grout leaving a burning white impression when I closed my eyes. And still it rocked, more heavily to the right with each tilt as if it was slowly building momentum in that direction to set the room spinning like a Wall of Death, a tiled one, without a motorcyclist, but a man in a bath.