In which I am out of practice

[desperance]

Two boys shouldering their way onto my desk, pacing up and down in front of the monitor, grumbling aloud: really I should've been quicker. But I am logey with jetlag and pain and drugs and depression and anxiety and stuff, and I've lost the habit of this. They haven't, despite weeks of irregular meals in my absence; when I finally remembered to glance at the clock, lo: it is most exactly their tea-time.

So I'd best go and feed them. And stir the chilli with which I shall be feeding me. It is my comfort-food, with which I shall fend off the self-loathing that comes at the end of a wasted day.