Senses

I can see: my keyboard, a little grubby, I note. Dust and stuff between the keys. It needs cleaning. A hastily scribble telephone number on a scrap of white paper – belong to? No idea. There’s a red-and-white airways envelope from Tahiti, where a friend is doing a six month residential course in air traffic control. The postcard it contained is up above the computer screen: Moorea, looking temptingly idyllic. My mouse is flashing red – AGAIN – informing me that it wants more batteries. I must get hold of a charger and rechargeables. There’s a coffee mat with a sepia illustration of Bolingey, Cornwall which was a gift from my dad last time we visited. A half-empty cylindrical case of blank CDs, a rubber (eraser, if that made you smile) a permanent marker, a diary and a wad of A4 paper make up the ensemble that is my desktop.

I can feel: the pain in my back and neck. Omnipresence. It is occupying more and more of me. As I concentrate, I can sense also a mild tingling in my fingertips, and of course the pressure as each key is hit. A trickle of sweat begins its journey down my back. As the fan reaches the edge of its arc, a brief respite of cool air reaches the left side of my head and body. And then there’s the pain in my back and neck…

I can hear: The electric shutters next door grindingly open to greet the day. The strains of Bach, oddly enough, coming from somewhere way behind the house. And now a taxi, struggling to squeeze passed the bikes parked outside and resorting to his horn. Padlocks being unlocked. And some one spitting loudly.

I can taste: the memory of the carrot and ginger juice I made myself ten minutes ago.

I can smell: hmm, my weak suit. Not much really. Even concentrating, I am unaware of any smells.