Under the lemon, carob, whatever tree

I am not looking very forward to tomorrow. It's not that it's Friday, it's just that I know I will lose my voice again. And yes it's also just that it's Friday. I am growing not to like Fridays very much. They are lonely days spent alone either with little people or alone under a tree in this quaint Zejtun mini-square, weather permitting of course. And I wish I could get some adult friendships but then if friendships are going to be struck with churchmouses then I'm better off alone. And I'm looked at in a funny sort of way. And it's no use asking why I am looked at in the funny way because they will say I'm very imaginative. I am imaginative, but this is nothing in my imagination. The looks. They make me feel alien, and no I'm not getting paranoid. This wasn't happening last year, so perhaps it's something the cat dragged in this year. Something like anti-black, anti-fat, anti-white and and more of that. So I retire to sitting under the tree next to Wasteserve's bring-in sites and feel very much like something dumped there by some wicked God. I just go on robot remote, do my job, which incidentally I feel I have to emphasize that I'm very good at doing, and go to the tree, do my job again and go to the tree again, do my job yet again, and go home. That's it, and it's the weekend. A lonely six hours, but I gather that six hours out of my life aren't a lot. I've survived worse than that. And so I will sit under my tree, thinking about the world, about the din that I've closed the door on and yet can still be heard, and about life. It'll pass, I'll be here again blogging sooner than I know.