10.52am

It’s one of those pens you can rub out, he says. Oh, I say. It’s a ball-point pen, but you can rub the ink out. He stands there looking at me. I put it back on the shelf and pay my 19.98 for stationary items. You don't want the pen then, he says. No, I say, sorry. I leave the shop and walk down the Holloway road. This is not the kind of place that makes it to the brochures. Shells of people, not so much walking as collapsing from foot to foot. Burnt out husks of people, in tracksuits, jogging bottoms, anything with an elasticated waistband. It's like the apocalypse out here, but with more shopping. I go to the department store, I take the automatic door because I don’t have the strength to push. I buy a dish drainer and two matching brushes. I buy a clothes horse despite there being nothing equestrian about it. It even has six legs. I buy a small pan and a smaller pan. I buy a skillet. I buy two reindeer glasses because the cartoons make me smile. I come home and clean my microwave, bills are piled by the door. I look out of the window and wash plates; trains rush by with the fleeing commuters; on the walls graffiti spells the names of those who need to be noticed. And in the silence I am surrounded by a hum that lets me never forget I have white goods to support.