A noise. A hand, emerging from the shelter of the duvet. It pats the table, seeking the alarm clock. Unsuccessful, it retreats to the safety and warmth of the bed. The noise continues. A head appears. Eyes open halfway, scanning the room. The noise is coming from the phone. The phone is unseen. The ringing continues for a while, then stops. The head returns to the pillow, the hand pulls the duvet around again to make a nest. The eyes close. The sound again. This time it penetrates more deeply, and I’m awake, although I’d rather I wasn’t. Hello? Why aren’t I at work? I mumble something about being ill, and hang up, but even I don’t believe it. I look around, rubbing my eyes. Much later, I climb out of bed and, wondering why I slept so uncomfortably, pull back the covers to see what I was sleeping on. My keys, some small change and a crushed cigarette adorn the bottom sheet, which has escaped from its moorings in the course of trying to strangle me in the night. My trousers are there, and I check the pockets. Nothing. That isn’t really surprising, considering how I feel. My shoes, for some reason, are under the pillow. Where was I last night? As I stand in the middle of the room, gently swaying from side to side, I know that it’s going to be one of those days. I stare at the wall with a painfully expanding eye, and begin attempting to get dressed. I pick up shirts, look at them long enough to realise that they are shirts, and put them down again. I feel infested by a mental sluggishness that is much more than just the usual early morning stupidity. I look at the clock, but I can’t engage my brain sufficiently to figure out what it means. I need some breakfast, so I head downstairs and check the cupboards. Nothing instantly edible. I take to the streets. I realise that this is a little unwise, but I need some food. I don’t know where I can get it, because I don’t have any money, and I can’t find my bank card. I hope I don’t have to cancel that. I’ve got enough change for a chocolate bar, so that will do for breakfast. As I unwrap it, I notice that I’ve bought something I don’t like. I eat the chocolate anyway, trying to ignore the taste of peanuts, and I head for home again. A child runs at a pigeon, which flies at my face. The child laughs, a shrieking laugh that needles its way into my skull. A radio controlled car crosses my path, while a black cat sits on a wall, ignoring everything. Is that a good or bad omen? Gradually, images come to me, like fragments of a dream, of last night. A picture on the wall of a bar. Talking to the barman about cocktails. A cab somewhere. Then blank. My head feels as if it has been colonised by an elephant. I’m not sure whether I’m nauseous or not. It might just be the aftertaste from the peanuts. I go and crouch by the toilet just in case. The porcelain is cold, and makes a very uncomfortable pillow. I’d never realised how filthy the bathroom floor was. I have to get out of the house, go somewhere. Doesn’t matter where, just somewhere I can forget about the idea of cleaning. Gradually I get it together, or at least do my best impression of it. I unfold myself from around the bowl, and clean my teeth, which sets off all sorts of strange tastes in my mouth. Definitely a good idea, though. I look in the mirror. Somehow it seems to magnify everything and swallow the colour from my face. In its monochrome glare, pores become lunar craters, lines become canyons. The only patches of colour are below my eyes, great purple troughs that tell a familiar story. I let a nauseous bubble rise inside me, its buoyancy throwing my head off balance. I walk to the bus stop, looking out on the world through hooded eyes, the sleep cloud in my head expanding to force the top lids downward. Pupils slide upwards, drilling into forehead. Somewhere a car horn hoots derisively. I wait. I wait some more. The bus arrives. As ticket is bought, change is spilt on the floor. I look around. No empty pairs of seats. Can’t sit next to anyone. Struggle upstairs. Noisy kids everywhere. Slump into seat and wait for replacement head to arrive.
Why is man alone subject to becoming an imbecile?
On the Origin of Inequality