If you could see me now, you’d realise the meaningless of existence…or perhaps it would make you appreciate it more, make you shrink away from me into a dark corner, bite your finger and think how lucky you are to be you. Then again, perhaps you don’t feel anything. Maybe you’re nothing but an object- cold and aloof, like that Mickey Mouse clock that you bought from the op shop, you know the one with the stupid grin. When I look at you, or think about you, petite and smiling, I cannot feel any of the turbulent river that runs through me…for you are a whole- a smiling, petite whole.

Yep, I’m in one of those moods. You know, the one where the morning sun burns lines into my scalp through the venetians and the birds annoy me with their twittering indifference. The fridge hums innocently to itself in the corner, as if trying to divert my attention. The washing up from last night…okay from the night before…clinks nervously at my approach and then breathes a sigh of relief as I decide on going out for breakfast. After all, perhaps I’ll feel better if I do.

Then for one moment- for one glorious, uninhibited moment, the anguish melts away and there I am, alone in my car with the windows down, the south-easter through my hair and the scent of the sea in my nostrils. I need to have more of those moments, to prolong them and gather them together like seashells into a collection. Maybe I could arrange them in my journal and then go in search for them each day like I’m in some bizarre, existentialist treasure hunt. Perhaps I’ll find some more on the park bench facing the sea. The heat has driven the regulars to the bowls club early so happily that will obviate the need for any conversation. Maybe later, I’m hungry.

You’d think she’d know my order by now. After all, I’ve only been here at the same time for the last thirty Saturdays. Maybe I should give her the benefit of the doubt. She looks a bit ditzy and to be fair, I probably don’t stand out in the crowd. My mood may have thrown her. Maybe if I smiled and ordered a flat white, she’d all-of-a-sudden cry out to the chef “Eggs bennie with bacon.” I test the theory with a smile. She looks bewildered, tilts her head like some cute puppy and asks me what I want. “Eggs benedict with bacon thanks….oh and a flat white in a cup, not a mug.”

Thankfully, I’m a creature of habit. I find that helps on days like these. Everything happens automatically and I chuckle at the fact that my biographer would only take a few minutes to get an angle on me. A day in the life of an automaton, he would call it. I don’t think it would sell many copies though and would end up wedged between the self-help books and Ramsay’s latest cookbook. Although perhaps there are others out there who might find something in it of interest? Like that old guy over there pushing his breakfast around the plate and reading the form guide, or that young girl drinking melon juice and kissing her boyfriend in the sun. You see, everything is of equal value in this world. On days like this, it matters not what clothes we wear or what restaurant we’ll be dining at tonight. When it’s all boiled down to its fundamental components, we’ve only got a few minutes left on the earth and so it stands to reason then that my life is as joyous and interesting as any, so why wouldn’t everyone enjoy reading about it? Okay, I withdraw that question.

Oh, I nearly forgot… happy birthday.