Fragment #18 - 'Mornin!

Breakfast, I should make some. I limp through to the kitchen cursing Lynne all the way. Standing in the doorway I scan the room with wonder. Just a few months ago you would have needed a tetanus shot just thinking about it and a HazMat suit to open the door. My fridge is full, but full of nothing that could be used in the production of breakfast, beer, wine and cold curry. Well nothing that could be used when company is involved. I'll go to the shop round the corner.
I open my front door and find there is yet another note for me to read. I will not bother repeating verbatim to you what was in it. But I will paraphrase. The person who shall remain anonymous (The nutter from downstairs) asks whether it would be possible for me not to be so noisy at three o’clock in the morning when I get in from my nightly wanderings. And would I be so kindly as to not urinate in the close. The noise I will admit to, but pissing on the stairs however is the work of the people upstairs from me I imagine. The only real desecration I have ever committed in communal space is when we had an infestation of mice. I, at one point, took the carcasses of every mouse I killed and found dead in the flat and nailed them up on the main door as trophies to show the progress of the war against the great plague.
I buy a newspaper too while at the shop because of the disturbing and sensational headline about student tuition fees and loans. I can imagine a time in the future that due to the enforced and unfair poverty heaped upon the scholastic population they will start to band together in packs, hunting for unknown sustaining flesh. In dark corners they will stand scanning the horizon with keen hungry eyes for unsuspecting passers by, pointing to the target and whispering to their comrades: “Meat! Meat, not lentil.” This look can be seen today behind the eyes that glance up from books written by T.S. Elliott or the poems of Tennyson. I keep a close eye on these people now, looking upon their person for concealed spears, machetes or Bows. A sad state to be in when soon you will have to fear the cannibalistic urges of starving undergraduates who’s only source of nourishment is either half cooked lentils or rice with tinned tomatoes. The only explanation I can find to this situation is that politicians have succumbed to ‘the final solution to the student problem.’
Back at the flat now, time for the morning after. I hope she likes freshly made fruit salad.