THE FRIDAY feeling was no different to that of any other Friday. Nothing out of the ordinary, just pretty much the same old, same old at the Fontainebleau office and an eagerness to get out of there as fast as was humanly possible. I was off the train and back in my hovel of a bedsit that wouldn’t even pass for a garret by quarter to six.
The sofa bed lay crumpled within feet of the door. As usual, I hadn’t had time to fold it. Now it just beckoned, especially since I wasn’t that hungry and didn’t have the energy even to toss a salad. And then there was my social life, which wasn’t exactly teeming outside of work – I had nothing better to do …
And so it was that I laid my head on the pillow …
I SQUINTED at the travel clock perched on the arm of the sofabed. Nearly seven o’clock and it was already past twilight. The idea of calling it a day and turning my quick nap into an early night was tempting, but the first stirrings of hunger made me want to fight it, thankful that I hadn’t once allowed myself to fall into deep slumber. Within minutes, I felt recharged enough to sit bolt upright.
Yet still I couldn’t be bothered cooking, so I pulled a yoghurt from my makeshift fridge of cold water in the washbowl, closed the curtains and switched on the TV to catch the evening news and the now familiar face of Guillaume Durand.
It was only half way through a news report and the penultimate spoonful of yoghurt that I paid any attention to the date displayed at the top of the screen. The hair on the back of my neck stood to full alert, as I attempted to grasp the magnitude of what I was seeing.
I flicked through all six channels and nipped to the nearest tabac to buy a newspaper, just to be sure that I wasn’t going out of my mind.
I wasn’t. Or maybe I was. Whatever, it was Saturday night.
Copyright (c) M K MacInnes 2015