Unwell Slanty rooftops outside my glass pane look cubist and grey, as television aerials sprout from the chimneys – Chinese letters against a milky sky (it must be January...or November). Only pigeons inhabit this space. Now and again a lone tabby appears from nowhere – an extra in the scene. I look again, he’s gone. I smoke Major, tapped three times on the pack, for luck. I don’t leave here. I don’t want to. - Three times. Outside, I feel I’m on stage, I behave, obey rules I’ve never read. The long walk home, my every step judged. -‘Please like me.’ I make coffee stirring three spoons of sugar. I rarely go out. I don’t like to. - Three spoons. The corner shop sells me cigarettes and milk, for other stuff I have to go farther. I limit my trips, in then straight out, no messing; ‘Elvis has left the building.’ - ‘Straight’ When I pee I count to three before zipping up, and tap the toilet seat three times. - Three. I look at television – The News. I understand it perfectly. It all adds up, the jigsaw comes together. - Messages received. Whenever I see them in the clinic I behave myself, like I’m someone on a state visit, (I’m always in the spotlight). I suppose for them it’s work, for me, a social occasion. I notice everything. - They’re all grinning at me. I know it’ll happen again from out of the blue. I’ll start to hear them once more: voices. ‘Listen’, I think then, ‘the bastard’s back!’ Jim Ward
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