Dog Shit - by Ben Sadler (nee Juneau)

There is no dog shit anywhere. There is only one dog. He is very clean. He belongs to a man with incredible teeth and a computer. The man reminds me of a chemistry teacher or possibly a minister. I imagine sometimes he is saying ‘…and that’s a bit like a God really…’ but in Japanese.

The cucumbers have stopped. I miss them now. I don’t know how to get them back. Aubergines just don’t have the same comfortable vibe to them.

Eating out is impossible on Sundays after 8.30 pm (or possibly earlier). Like Mid-West American teenagers we eat from plastic on the kerb of a 7/11. Maybe we look like a band somehow. I can’t imagine what our album would be like. We’re fronted by Elvis though so that’s a start.

I weigh exactly zero kilograms apparently. It feels heavy for nothing. One exact revolution of the dial on the changing room’s scales. I feel for a moment like the largest man in this country. Later I see two Sumo wrestlers on television, which makes me feel better. More importantly I also see a programme that pits a chimp and a baboon against each other in a competition to see who can pluck the most starfish from a rock pool. Both apes wear shirts and trousers. The baboon looks a little like a boy, in my class at primary school, whose dog ate my A-Team action figure set in a few swift bites.

I almost cry when I see a Kit-Kat. It would be too much to actually taste it.

I worry that I might shit myself in the night. It’s a strange fear. The toilet has a very particular smell. It’s made by a company called Toto. Privately I have named this john Oz.

In the dark of our bachelor pad the screen of my powerbook draws mosquitoes like flies to manure. I feel somehow seedy, like I’m reading a fifth-hand copy of Razzle with trembling hands. The whiff of incense completes the scene.

The rain is relentless. A faint moulding dampness seeps into and out of everything. Tomorrow I will put myself in the dryer for an hour or two. “You can’t wash that kind of darkness out”: the showerhead will not stretch that far.

Morning comes with the clumsy slide of panels, an intricate game of puzzle and chance. Words flow like treacle. I have never eaten salad for breakfast before being here. Now I embrace it, although my dreams turn more and more to East End cafes.

I sing Endless Love with a karaoke snack bar hostess. For one brief moment I think we might just pull it off. We don’t. I crash on the second verse, warbling like a prepubescent choirboy.

Social politeness is a game of chess played against many opponents. I forget which moves I can make.

Tongue griddled on a metal sheet and wrapped in lettuce. It’s kind of a sandwich.

I woke early this morning and saw the chemistry teacher walking his dog.