The fan, one of the tall ones (free-standing I guess we would call it) is useless.

She has moved it closer but I had to go up to it to check. If you put your hand right in front of it you could feel a very gentle breeze but you can’t feel it if you’re further than 6 inches away. It is hot and I am sweating but only because I had to run for the train, which was annoying as it had said, on the board, that it was going to be 2 minutes late, so I wasn’t rushing and then it came in on time and stopped, as they always do, at the furthest end of the platform from me. Past experience tells me that for anything less than a full run, they will not wait.

This was unfortunate because as soon as I was in the carriage it started. It only starts when I stop. And it is marking the front of my T-shirt. I pull forward at the neck and blow down my chest. It serves no purpose nor is it effective.

Worse still is this is one of the old trains without air conditioning. Damn.

And, even though I have to go and get cigarettes (for her, not me) and I walk slowly and try to cheat my body into thinking that it can stop sweating now, by the time I arrive, I am, shall we say, very moist.

They’re not really listening, most of the time. I do wonder if I am like that too. Sometimes, in the midst of a conversation I catch myself ‘not listening’ just waiting for the moment that I can change the subject back to me. But, sometimes, these people seem to do it all the time.

Or, perhaps, it’s because I’m really boring?

And so it was, I was talking and no one was listening. It doesn’t matter, really. What I was saying had no real importance it just seemed right that I should, at least, make an effort, pretend that I have something interesting to say that doesn’t involve some TV star, film star or other small celebrity. I.e. Gossip. Which I really am not very good at anyway. I think the problem here is that I don’t care so much and V is not here to do the talking for me.

They tell me (at some bit that they were listening to) that, at least, I’m still alive. But they don’t get it really. That’s OK. I’m not really telling them for them, I’m telling it for me, as if by telling it out loud it will put it all in perspective – although it does seem to get more stupid with each telling.

Still, I’m grateful for their attention even if the span is short.

I go home, grateful also to be going.

On another night, another friend who was attentive as only she can be, gave me good advice. Talk to people! Making me swap numbers with some guy who a) wasn’t gay and b) was only interested in whether he could sell me furniture. Still, she has a point. It’s just that I didn’t expect and, certainly, don’t want to be doing this all over again (not that I ever did it well) at my age. It all seems far too much effort.