Wow! Last night I slept really well for the first time in a good few weeks.

Not 100% sure why I've not been sleeping properly - I have never been an accomplished sleeper - but I was rapidly nearing utter exhaustion. Getting up in the morning my legs would be aching; on the train I sometimes couldn't even be bothered to read; at night all I could think of was closing my eyes.

I want to give credit to my blog for allowing me some release, but I don't know if I can. I'm sure it didn't do any harm. So I thought I would try again today!

I even had some dreams that I can recall. I'm sure I do dream, but I don't generally remember my dreams. Last night I dreamt that the Underground had extended its platforms and trains, and that these now ran into the tunnels. It was a good dream: non-sensical and non-threatening and with no worry hidden meaning (I hope).

Being a bit more observant this morning I noticed the little sheep and lambs sauntering about in fields outside the train window. Peaceful things, but I can never figure out how they manage to keep themselves amused all day. Guess they are to stupid (but not in a bad way) to be bored.

Humans seem to be the opposite: the stupidest people seem to get bored the quickest.

It was windy last night and I imagined the lambs being blown away, chased by bleating mothers. They should have tethers. It would prevent mistaken identities too; they all have such similar fashion sense.

So I haven't written anything for a while. Not for any particular reason; just haven't found the time (or more realistically made the time). Not the way to become a writer I guess.

But doesn't life so rudely intrude? You think I'll write at night, when I've had my tea, washed the dishes and ironed my clothes and then your eyes are heavy, your head aches and it's all you can do to brush your face and wash your teeth before collapsing into your plump bosom of a bed.

So instead your brain, constant creator of plots and twisted tales, a wily but scarred veteran of bodily coups, decides : Mornings! First thing! Can't be tired if you've done nothing else! Problem solved. It chatters happily to itself, leaving you to your own devices for a time. You forget.

The alarm goes off at five-thirty sharp and you spring energetically from bed, all that potential released and realised in a supernova of creative energy. You bounce into the kitchen to get the coffee filter on the go - astronauts need rocket fuel! - and bound into shower. Soak, soap, lather, rinse and quickly swaddled by the embrace of a still warm towel.

No, you don't. I know you don't and you know you don't. Plain fiction is what it is (but maybe that's what you're good at?). So your writing suffers. You don't practice. You don't vent. Words and letters swirl in your subconscious until finally they are overflowing: you are drowning in alphabetti spaghetti.

What cost not writing? Keeping it all in?

You'll burst you will. Pop like an overblown balloon but without the deprecating chuckles afterwards. 

Eddie

"Everyone knows you're a bastard Eddie. Everyone!"

Eddie's hand stopped a foot from Ellie's red face. He sucked so hard on his cigarette that it had to either explode or be inhaled. Hid hand was curiously steady for a drinker of his prodigiousness.

His voice was low. "Ellie, you know you can't say things like that to me." He paused as though struggling with an original idea. "They make me angry."

"Oh Eddie! What fucking difference does that make?"

Eddie lowered his now shaking hand and stepped back. He turned away from Ellie and placed his hands on the crummy kitchen worktop.

Ellie stood still, unsure of the next move.

When he turned back round his face was red and the cigarette had gone. In his unsteady hand he held the larger kitchen knife, still showing blood from its earlier use.

Ellie's eyes went wide. And then wider, as Eddie sunk the knife into her left side, high up where he thought the heart might be. He didn't pull it back out.

She slumped to her knees, wide eyes sagging. The knife dug deeper as she fell on her side, and blood frothed from the increased gash.

Eddie stared at the corpse. He didn't know what to do. He'd never had to clean the floor before.

*          *          *

Maude and Pritchard woke together, as twins are wont to. They knew something wasn't right. The house was too quiet. Mum should have been making noise somewhere, but she wasn't.

They clambered from their bunks, thin legs protruding from ill-fitting pyjamas, goose pimpled and pale. Light had penetrated the worn curtains; they were already late for school.

They arrived downstairs to find Dad in the kitchen. This was a joyful surprise. "Dad! What are you doing here? Where's Mum?"

"She's gone away for a bit. On holiday."

The twins knew their Dad never really looked good, but they could both sense something was very wrong. His eyes were more red than white and the hand holding his cigarette was shaking so much that the lit tip was glowing red hot.

"The floor's wet Dad. Did you spill something?"

Eddie said nothing but made an odd noise. His children noticed this, but didn't say, the inexperience of youth overruled by the survival instinct of millennia.

They made their own breakfast that morning, but both thought the cornflakes tasted funny. Eddie ate nothing.