My Time Soon

Unemployment, that's what awaits him, W. says. The dole queue, which might as well be the queue to the knacker's yard, W. says. They might as well cook him into glue, W. says. He's finished, it's all over.

Unemployment: I'll have to prepare him for it, W. says. After all, I've spent most of my life unemployed, haven't I? I've spent most of my life either unemployed or resigned to unemployment. Even now, I'm waiting only to be made unemployed again, W. says, he knows that. I know it's my destiny: years of unemployment, a whole life unemployed …

But he got there before me, W. says, who would have thought that? He'll be there, wandering Bristol streets, drinking his way through the afternoon. He'll be there, slowly fading into the wan afternoon light …

Sometimes he thinks he should make a stand, W. says. That he'll go and live in the hills and storm the university in five years time. That he'll become a new Che Guevara, dying die gloriously, beautifully young, but of course it's impossible. He's already been defeated, W. says. He's outlived his time, and the Bristol streets are opening around him …

He'll be waiting for me to come and join him, W. says. He'll be waiting for me, tapping on my window, and whispering that it'll be my time soon.