You know, because I was tired. I was complaining here. Maybe two posts down. Well. I spilled a full cup of tea on myself.

Having wrung out my clothing as best I could, I peeled it off and dangled it all in front of the heater while I climbed back into my still damp but not as drenched gym clothes.

They stank. So badly that I decided to work in my bra, cold as a bastard who spilled tea on herself and had nothing but a top so stinky she couldn't wear it.

By the time I decided to go home, I was so deep in self pity that I called a cab. The 30 minute walk home looked grim; it was a Saturday night in Newcastle. My clothes were wet. I was stinky. I had three bags and as many hours sleep. It was 20:30. People would be Out There. Drunk People.

I need to learn to carry more than 32 pence on my person. That day I was lucky though (pff) and I had 8 whole pounds in change. I called a cab.

At first I thought my driver was one of the less chatty types. But he wasn't. He was just gearing up. The ride was only ten minutes long, but as short as it was, I felt like I managed to depress him with every one of his efforts at uplifting conversation.

He asked what I'd been doing. I told him I was working. He asked if I would be working all through the bank holiday weekend. I said I was. That's no good. No, it's okay. After June I'll catch a break. Why June? Because I have a show in June. What sort of show? An art exhibition. Art, ey. Yes, art. Painting. He falls silent and I'm grateful. I hate it when people ask what I paint. I never know what to say. Mostly children and animals- how twee does that sound? When I'm thinking on my feet I say that I'm an illustrator, which produces easier questions to respond to, since all I need do is lie.

What I don't get, he says, is that artists need to die to become famous. It's not so much the case these days I say. Isn't it? No. He waits. Reluctantly I say Damien Hirst. Reluctantly because I don't want to talk anymore. He waits awhile. I rub my face, dipping my head. And rest there, staying like that. What am I having for tea? Through my hands I say toast. What I'm talking about is food. How I say it, he hears something akin to I can't go on. I know he wants to hear something meaty. Something with gravy. A hearty something or other. Something happy. I should lie. I usually do, but I decided to be 100% me, which is a round disappointment. What he doesn't know is that I never have bread. Stomach issue. But I have some yeast free crap at home, so I'm actually really excited about my toast. I even have an overripe avo to smear on it. I'm so excited. Inwardly. He says that's...nice. Not trying to be funny. He really was stuck. Felt awkward. Felt like he was polishing a turd and that I knew it. I said it was. When I got out I said thank you and hoped that he picked up a more charismatic fare next time. He brightened and said I was plenty interesting. That poor old fucker. What a liar.

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