DAY 14

Guest lecturer, Simone, stands there, bellowing about screen printing, looking like an extra from a low-budget sci-fi movie in her extreme PPE and feels like a twat. A right twat. Especially given the massive words FACE SHIELD emblazoned across the forehead part of it.  Communicating with the students is a thankless task, spittle spraying against the sheer, plastic visor as she shouts to be heard. One of the cocky teenage students says he’ll order her some tiny, novelty windscreen wipers off Amazon for next time she’s in, which draws sniggers and hisses from his viper’s nest of prats. At lunch time she downs a can of mid-strength Polish lager and half a packet of arctic ice chewing gum, brought in her handbag to combat this very instance. The smell of sanitiser helps mask the booze on her breath.

The interview goes well for Barrett. As well as they can go over Zoom. Only once did he unintentionally cut the interviewer off because of the lag. The MD laughed at two of his jokes and appeared pleasantly caught off guard when he listed the raft of new skills he’s acquired via online courses and tutorials, since he became unemployed in July. There was one slight snag. Just before they left the meeting room, his webcam fell down, revealing that beneath the pinstripe shirt and cornflour blue tie, he wore only white underpants, which he clearly saw on screen; their saggy waistband, the Batman logo, stretched over his manhood. There is no way of knowing if they had already left the meeting and Barrett begins to sweat profusely.

Marvin lost his cousin during the 1st lockdown. He threw himself feverishly, obsessively into a cornucopia of DIY and gardening work to stave off the gnashing jaws of depression. The garden is now a mud-bath and his wife, Joy has warned him away from holes, drills and any emulsion or eggshell paint. Under a low lamp in their converted loft, he sits at a 1960s typewriter and clacks out poetry. He has never written any poetry before. His poems are like those of a 12-year old delinquent. But he means well. The problem is, those receiving his poems do not appreciate the beautiful intentions of the kindred spirit despatching them. Marvin waits for the free local newspaper and excitedly turns to the obituary section, cuts out the photographs of lost loved ones and writes his poems around their image, before sending them to the bereaved families of those who’s addresses he can obtain, either thanks to his own knowledge of the local area and a personal friend who works at the paper as assistant editor. Joy dares not ask where he is going with his weekly stack of envelopes. It is for the better.