Draggy

There is an irritating pulse in the air. It may be the repressive afternoon heat and a still wind. I only hope for my literary sail to unfurl. 

Father, over eighty of years now, can come across as stubborn. He kept insisting on buying the newspapers at three, when the deliveryman only comes around at close to five o'clock. I am beaten out of wits, count my blessing that I will be back to work in the office tomorrow. Look, I can only console myself, a problem is not a problem if you have not exhausted all the possible solutions. So the day drags its feet, and I drag mine too, around the little rectangle of my bedroom.