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Chapter I - Ham and Eggs

I would have bet my car that she would not go anywhere, and was curious what excuse she was going to make. I would have bet my car on that if I had any.

With this uncomfortable curiosity I was getting up. It was Saturday, around noon. The curiosity was uncomfortable as a pair of damp shoes on your feet, as a fresh cut on your own finger. As a dull expression on your own face.

I emerged from my room, noticing the whispering silence of the corridor, and crept to her door, listening carefully. No snoring or any sound like that. Was she really gone? Yes, she is gone. She is not a hopeless liar like I thought. She is no worse than me. Actually, I am worse than her. I am the wretch desperately searching for human errors, faults and inabilities. At least seven times a day I reject somebody, and at least seven times a day I reject myself.

When I moved in this house, most of my things were locked away in a flat thirty miles away. I was grateful when they lent me bedsheets. I used their kitchen utensils. My goodness. I had only been in for one hour or so when I asked for a piece of bread, butter and cheese – it was late and I was hungry.

I returned to my bed, eager to read a pretty old magazine borrowed from local library (I don’t buy magazines or newspaper. I prefer to read them with the delay – and for free). As for the typical tabloids, I detest it. I only sometimes catch headlines when sneaking over peoples’ shoulder on bus. I am disguised by tabloids, sometimes finding myself squinting just to catch a headline and picture. Like a pervert who can manage his lust, not hundred percent though. At least I don’t feed them.

When I had consumed satisfying amount of current threads and hopes, and had overfed myself with articles about successful people and losers (finding myself in both categories), I turned the television on. There was a documentary about hard life in Africa. The Africans who work for two dollars a day. HIV and lack of food, sometimes even lack of water. And here is me - greedy spoilt prat, hating my pregnant landlady.

However, the pain is everywhere. In Africa as well as anywhere else. It is only the form that differs. I recall faces of few people who would detest me for my opinion. And also there would be another ones who would detest me behind my back. The Africans would want to stone me to death, especially if they found out that I belonged to the people who eat too much and drink although they are not thirsty.

On the other hand, I can be quite humble. I voluntarily deprive myself of certain things, such as bungee-jumping – I really do not fancy hanging from a bridge with my head down.