the asssessor

I'm standing in the bath and the phone rings.

But that's 45 minutes later.

The assessor arrives. He looks like someone's idea of an extra in a British gangster flick. He has a shaven head with sports sunglasses locked on like horns. He's fifty something, strong, purposeful.

The assessor says it won't take a moment. He walks through the flat, footstep by footstep. At first I think he's testing out the floorboards. He writes something on the back of an envelope. He doesn't talk to me. I realise he's measuring the space.

The space of the flat.

It takes five minutes, then he leaves.

I run a bath.

I got there twenty minutes before the assessor.

I was just trying to get the old laptop to go on-line. The BBC homepage came up as 15th March. Israeli commandos had stormed a Palestinian jail. Ballack had agreed to join Chelsea. It refused to refresh. I called my wife up to ask her if she knew why it wasn't working but she wasn't there.

The assessor came and left.

I had a pitta bread. Took a fearsome pleasure from eating off a brown plate, using a knife. The bath was running. I figured I might never get the chance again. To use the bath. It's a good bath. And I needed one.

Later I'd leave with two pairs of shoes in a plastic bag and one yellow llama made of salt. Retreat is a slow process.

The phone rang. I was in the bath. I stood up. Water dripped off me. It was my wife, phoning me back. She told me there was something wrong with the connection. Later I thought that didn't make sense. As the laptop had gone on-line. It was Explorer that wasn't working. But I didn't think that at the time. I was too worried she was going to realise I was in the bath. Worried that she'd hear a drip hit the water. She sensed something was up. She asked me if I was ok and I said I'm fine. Trying to conceal the steam. The towels. My wet skin. On the end of a line.