I’m looking at the sun out of the office window. I can hear it chuckling, barbing ‘Look what I’m doing out here with ‘heat’ and ’light’ whilst you’re stuck in there typing various combinations of keys in vain attempts to produce words on your television.
‘It’s a monitor’ I argue but the sun isn’t listening anymore. It’s laughing with the kids playing football, with jumpers for goalposts and a football for football. It’s studiously serving the slaves to sunburn who lie static along sandy beaches reading novels written by Jade Goody, stuffing greasy chips up their cracks. It’s playing peak-a-boo with the pale, who hide under parasols outside cafes, sucking then end of their beer bottles, re-hydrating their indifference to the rest of the world.
I wonder outside at lunch for a walk and the sun notices me again. ‘Ah, there you are, decided to join us again have you?’
‘Just for half an hour.’
‘See that’s the problem with people like you,’ the sun says flashing angry hot claws only visible to Hubble, ‘you complain when I’m not here, and then when I put in the effort you hide away in shirts and ties doing ‘work’’.
‘I have to earn a living,’ I argue half-heartedly but the sun doesn’t buy it. He’s sceptical about everything I say because I never look him in the eye. The fear of him burning through my retinas, into the darkest recesses, means I stare downwards defeated at the ugly pavement as I walk back.