5 o’clock can’t come soon enough. This 9 to 5 is choking my spirits. I can see Malling Down from the office window, the mid-April sun now full on it’s southern face. The hours between 2pm and 5pm are dragging their heels to mock me in a vulgar supercilious manner. The cursor flickers steadily, it hasn’t moved across the page for 45 minutes, I have been idly observing a walker climbing the hill. It is now 3:52.

This is time I won’t be getting back, trespassing on my free will, toying with me like a cat with a fledgling.

I’m riding the long way home tonight.


By Phoebe