Nora had loved him ever since she’d watched him play a brooding Plato in The Athenians on TV,
and since he’d said in an interview that he’d studied philosophy.
She’d imagined them having deep conversations about Henry David Thoreau through a veil of steam in his West Hollywood hot tub.
Go confidently in the direction of your dreams,’ Thoreau had said. ‘Live the life you’ve imagined.’
Thoreau had been her favourite philosopher to study. But who seriously goes confidently in the direction of their dreams?
Well, apart from Thoreau. He’d gone and lived in the woods, with no contact from the outside world,
to just sit there and write and chop wood and fish. But life was probably simpler two centuries ago in Concord, Massachusetts,
than modern life in Bedford, Bedfordshire. Or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe she was just really crap at it. At life.
Whole hours passed by. She wanted to have a purpose, something to give her a reason to exist.
But she had nothing. Not even the small purpose of picking up Mr Banerjee’s medication, as she had done that two days ago.
She tried to give a homeless man some money but realised she had no money. ‘Cheer up, love, it might never happen,’ someone said.
Nothing ever did, she thought to herself. That was the whole problem.
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