I glance inside my cup. I'm irritated that there is just froth at the bottom. I squeeze the mug tight and almost dare it to crack, for a fragment of china to dig into my hand and draw blood. There must be a pained, or psychotic, look to my face, for a middle-aged man with lank hair on the pavement outside (the sort of guy that must gets looks wherever he goes) pulls his head back and stares at me as he passes.
There is a queue at the till. Even though my fingers are already tingling and a woodpecker has been chipping away at my forehead for the last half an hour, I want a coffee. Nobody seems to be in any hurry, and yet everybody seems to annoy me. The customers disperse until I'm face to face with the girl who served me last week. She has a fresh complexion, with full rosy cheeks. I can imagine her sat cross-legged on a bail of straw in a barn. She is pointlessly pretty, though, because her permanently vacant face makes her sexless. I am irritable. There is no doubt about that. I want to ask the girl whether she's had a personality transplant. I doubt this passes as standard coffee shop etiquette, but I don't care. Last time the girl's expression was mute. This time it is worse. Is something written on my forehead? Does white powder coat my nostrils? She winces when she sees me. I talk at pace and smile frantically, order my coffee and tell her I want this one to take away. She asks for my name - again - and I give it this time without engaging in any further discussion, then I move away from her and loiter by the newspapers.
Pacing in a circle, tapping my toes on the wooden floor as I do so, I sniff, then wipe the tip of my nose with the back of my hand. I pick up a napkin and dab at my sticky forehead. I keep glancing at the girl, longing her to hurry the fuck up but then, at the same time, trying to remain inconspicuous. My mind is so frazzled I can barely even pronounce the word, let alone spell it. Then - eventually - the girl looks up and shouts at the top of her voice.
"Jeffrey Allen!"
I throw the napkin on the floor. I blink out the sweat that has trickled into my eyes. I pull my hands out from my pockets.
"What the fuck did you just say?" I ask.
She glances at me with disgust, before looking over both shoulders for support. Two guys in matching aprons and tattooed arms slowly turn to me.
"I called your name," the girl says, her voice monotone.
"What name?"
The two guys smirk. The realisation hits that they are dealing with a nutcase. "Your name," the girl says. "Whatever name you gave me." She takes a cursory glance at the cardboard cup. "Jeffrey Allen."
"That isn't my name."
She glances at the developing queue. There are more than six eyes on me now. Coins tap against the side of the counter. I turn around, and the whole coffee shop is looking at me: staring and evaluating.
"Listen," the girl says, colour rising to her cheeks. "I really don't care what your name is. Do you want this coffee, or not?"
I grab at the coffee and it spills over the edge. I turn on my heel and leave the shop as quickly as I can.
This makes no sense. I am going mad. It is only when I am down the street and around the corner that I realise what happened.
He is on my mind all the time. I must have given my old name.
DAY TWENTY 20TH JUNE 2018
I have morphed into a caricature of the sort of person I despise, that I secretly (never openly) make fun of. I'm aware I possess eccentricities that make others raise their eyebrows, so surely I'm entitled to mock others under my breath?
Normally I prefer to take my time when I'm out and about. My lifestyle affords me to do this, to make this choice. Not today. Today I'm Usain Bolt on Red Bull. If I had wings then I'm sure I'd fly. My body is high up in the sky somewhere; my mind is down by my feet, sinking into the ground, disintegrating into the depths of nothingness.
My baggy, grey joggers are in danger of being trodden on by my light running trainers. My fists are in a ball; my arms pump with purpose. My upturned scalp is drenched with hot, itchy sweat. The volume on my iPod is turned to the max; I mouth the words of the beat.
I like to move it move it, I like to move it move it, I like to move it!
The orange sun is just beginning to rise, no doubt signalling the beginning of another sweltering day. Airports are packed with commuters setting off on package holidays to Spain, yet they're leaving more than enough sun behind. The sun is
