The Blonde on the Bed
By Tim Starfield from Februs 6 What am I doing here? Well, that’s two questions really, isn’t it. One practical, one psychological. To deal with the practicalities first. What I’m actually doing, right now, is looking intently at a small speck of dirt under the third fingernail of my left hand. I don’t suppose anyone else would notice it; it has only swum into my consciousness in the last thirty seconds or so, and I’ve been staring at the backs of my hands now for about an hour-and-a-half. I’ve also had plenty of time to inspect the rest of my rather limited field of vision. This comprises a white sheet, a brass bed-head, an expanse of white-painted wall, halfway up which there is a small Victorian photograph of an unsmiling family group. Mother, father, and two daughters, glowering glum and stiff-necked into the future. The frame is jet black. I can also see, on either side of the bed, that there is grey cord carpet on the fl...