All the Lonely People

This week, Howard has been singing Beatles songs or, more specifically, Eleanor Rigby. He assures me I'm very like her; a lonely and repressed loser who’ll never find another boyfriend.

I gave him a face that I keep in a jar by the door.

By Friday he had re-written and expanded the poignant third verse burial. He also substituted me for Eleanor. It goes as follows:-

I’m dead. It’s raining and the ham-fisted gravediggers slip in the mud, dropping my coffin into the hole and tipping the lid. My hideous corpse is exposed. The exhausted gravediggers take a tea break. I died of an obesity related illness so it was a heavy task. The rain worsens. Howard arrives to pay his respects. He notices, with some sadness, that he is there alone. The torrential rain gives Howard an urgent desire to relieve himself. He looks around for a bush to run behind – there are none in view; no trees either. He can’t hold on much longer. Where on earth can he go? Desperate, he looks down into the hole and unzips…

You get the picture.

Very creative, he’s been working on it all week. Truth is, I think Howard is the lonely one. Sure, he’s married, but the whole office knows he’s bullied at home. That’s why he spends so many hours at his desk. And it’s also why they forgive him his behaviour.

I think he’s a sociopath anyway, but don’t get me wrong. I’m not scared of Howard. I’m not scared of being just another Eleanor Rigby either. I suppose at the moment I’m scared of one thing. I’m scared of blogging to no-one and, like Father McKenzie, “writing the words of a sermon that no one will hear.”

I hope someone is reading.

Eva x