I was pretending to care again. I'd been telling myself I shouldn't. That I should just tell people how I really felt, or I suppose, more to the point, how I didn't feel. Instead though, I kept nodding along to the seemingly distant hum of their voice, as they went through the vast list of their various grievances about whoever it was they were talking about. My eyes had glazed over, but I had a knack for keeping a face that portrayed itself as if still listening.
I'd made too many biscuits again, clearly that was weighing on my mind. I'd written a complaint to Tesco to tell them off - recipes these days just don't understand the realities of portion sizes for people who aren't morbidly obese. And so I have two or three tins of biscuits wasting away in the cupboards, probably being eaten by maggots and weevils and every other various thing... every other thing except for my guests. They never ate them. They were all too busy telling me about their boring lives and tedious troubles. My mind was running up the bill of all the ingredients and coming to various figures that made me feel sick to my stomach. Do they know how much it costs to feed all these maggots? The outside corner of the eyelid above my left eye began twitching rapidly. Just like it did the last time. Just like it did when it all boiled over.