My bedroom looked like a bomb had gone off. Amongst a mess of some proportion, I decided enough was enough.There were shoes against the wall. Some with used socks in them. There were clothes thrown onto, not into the wicker basket. Like I couldn’t be both

My bedroom looked like a bomb had gone off. Amongst a mess of some proportion, I decided enough was enough.There were shoes against the wall. Some with used socks in them. There were clothes thrown onto, not into the wicker basket. Like I couldn’t be bothered. There were half-read books on the bed, and on the floor. There were blankets I had discharged onto the floor during the nights and just left there. There was a whiteboard that I no longer use, filled work inspiring self-quotes like “This is a wonderful magazine”, “Think strong, think positive”, stuff that was supposed to assist me before I got on the phone. Truth be told, I’m not really one to be inspired by such writings. I can only imagine I must’ve been feeling particularly desperate or bored when I scrawled these words.

There was a pile of freshly washed clothes and bedsheets laying on the bed. There was dust. There was the Qantas-provided eye covers to shield against the intrusion of morning light. There was Wendy’s old heat bag, being used as a doorstop.

Down the hallway, I fossicked in the laundry until I found a cloth and bucket and the vacuum cleaner. I opened the bedroom windows to let in fresh air.

This would be my daily exercise, I figured. And I was right. It was an imposing task.

Half an hour later I’d raised a sweat and my bedroom looked like one of those ersatz IKEA rooms.

Signalling another day is almost done, I’m in the kitchen shaking a martini. I forgot to buy gin today so will suffice with soft, sweet Japanese Haku vodka. The local radio station is on. The trackies are on.