First Confessions

The silence ends as does the dream. In the darkness the warm pulsing sound of electronically generated music signals a brand new day. This horrible hour, 0448 arrives unwelcomed. 

Ablutions, clothes, breakfast packed, the obligatory moment of envy as I listen to Tina’s breath in the next room, resting, rising, gently as she slips effortlessly back to slumber.

The door, it’s not yet raining, music, last check, phone, keys, wallet, closed.

Snaresbrook Tube station at 0520 is sparsely populated with the familiar faces, so is the tube, all the usual people in their usual places, my seat awaits. We travel in silence busying ourselves as best we can, newspapers, make-up, apps, by Stratford the central line is at capacity.

A Metro becomes available. I read the free daily with a mixture of giddy delight, anger and disappointment, but its distracting and time whizzes alone as does the train. Tottenham Court Road station, disembark.

The skies have burst. I walk through the sheets of rain. Soho Square is far from desolate at 0600 but hardly the gauntlet of the night before. I imagine Thomas De Quincey lying helplessly at the steps of the old church convinced he would die years before his literal masterpiece. Curse the weather, I may ask to be paid in diamonds.

I arrive; the grateful cleaners crowd around me happily pointing out my soggy disposition, a joke about swimming to work is passed around to much joy at my expense.

I turn the key and it begins.