My troubles, W. says. I'd like to think I am a troubled man. My romantic troubles. My troubles at work. My life troubles. He's heard them all, W. says, and he's convinced by none of it.
They don't touch me, my so-called troubles. I like to moan and wail, W. says. In its way it's quite admirable, my moaning and wailing. The smallest thing will make me moan and wail. An imagined slight. A brusque email. A cloud on the horizon.
Do I have a real sense of the apocalypse? Minor troubles – getting the one pound deposit back from my shopping trolley, or being able to say a single sentence without stuttering - certainly. But the apocalypse itself? I'm really only a meta-apocalypticist, W. says. I like the idea of the apocalypse. It gives me excuses, even a kind of leeway. But I have no real idea of what is to come.
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