Hardy, Christopher, 1976-

It has now been fifteen days since I last worked.

Usually I love being at home doing nothing. It is wonderful to earn enough to survive on a couple of day’s work a week and have the freedom to laze about the flat reading, watching DVDs, drinking wine before dinnertime. Yet, because I have literally no work lined up at any point in the future, every thing I do is tinged with an edge of anxiety and guilt. I should be doing more to find freelance camera work rather than waiting for phone calls from existing employers. But cold calling companies is the most depressing and generally pointless action I can think of. So I put up with the anxiety and guilt, because it is easier.

Wimbledon is on. I hate Wimbledon. Hate it hate it hate it. Which is strange because tennis is my favourite sport and Wimbledon is the greatest sporting event on our planet. Perhaps I should say, I hate being in England when Wimbledon is on. All the pathetic wonky-toothed old wankers in their Union Jack hats and shirts waving flags. At least there’s less of that now that Henman has retired and we have a Scot as the only possible British winner. It would be nice if Murray won, but the public would still be waiting for the next Englishman even as they applauded the embarrassingly filthy-mouthed brat.

For the vast majority of Brits, tennis simply does not exist outside of these two weeks. Which is fine. Who wants to follow forty-eight weeks of largely mute men in baseball caps slugging a piece of furry rubber over a net? Well, some of us do. But the others, the Great British Public, suddenly feel they have a right to an opinion on tennis, basing all their information on one fortnight. And, of course, all they do is complain. In their ignorance, one of our greatest individual sportsman in years was largely maligned by the “sports fans” for being a loser, a failure, rather than the gloriously brave last-of-the-serve-and-volleyers swashbuckling his way through a field of more talented and powerful players year after year. The truth is the fat, burger-munching moaning cynical public don’t deserve a British champion any more than they deserve us to win the World Cup.

Today I shower and then study myself in the mirror with masochistic scrutiny. I practise a tennis player fist pump and try to find a way that doesn’t make me look foolish. My flab wobbles slightly. I raise my hands and lace my fingers behind my head. If my body could just look like this all the time I would feel okay.

I fiddle with iTunes for a while and then open a book by Martin Amis I’ve been reading for five months. After a few sentences I absently scan the first few pages when something gives me the chills. I grab my phone and dial my editor at Harper Collins.

“Chris speaking.”

“It’s Christopher Hardy here,” I say.

There is a pause, during which I imagine he mouths obscenities at the wall. Then, “What’s up, Christopher?”

“Will my book have Hardy, Christopher, 1976- ?”

“Will it what?”

“On the copyright thingy page, will it say my name with the year of my birth and then a dash? I find it rather ominous.”

“I really don’t know. Why does it bother you?”

“It’s an unnecessary reminder of the inevitability of death. It’s like someone’s waiting with a pen poised over the page waiting to ink in the year of my demise.”

“You think that it somehow jinxes you? That you might die before your time?”

“It’s creepy.”

“I really have no idea how that decision is arrived at, Christopher. I’m very busy.” I say nothing until he is forced to say “Goodbye” and hang up.

I have been fairly good about writing my second novel. I try to get at least two hundred words down a day. Today, though, as soon as I get into some sort of zone, a call from my agent Sid interrupts me. I think about pushing ‘reject’ but the spell is already broken.

“What’s the news?” I bark.

“Oh, nothing.” He yawns and instantly brings me down. “Just ringing for a chat.”

“I’m in the middle of writing actually.”

“Oh great, great,” he says, totally uninterested. “I’m just in the office, milling around.”

“You haven’t got anything to do?”

“Not really. Things are quite quiet this week.”

“Why go into the office at all? Why not just stay at home and keep your mobile on?”

“Well, my mum’s moved in and she’s senile so I’m looking after her.”

“What, she’s moved into the office?”

“No, no, she’s at home. I can’t stand being around her twenty-four hours a day so the office is really an escape.”

“Who looks after during the day?”

“No one. I just lock the doors and windows so she can’t get out. I put some music on quite loud so that she doesn’t bother the neighbours. She’s fine. I just clean her up when I get home and comfort her a bit and it’s okay.” He yawns again and I can hear him stretching. “Keeping yourself busy?”

“Just trying to write. Doddering around.”

“Do you get bored?”

“I don’t know. How do you know when you’re bored?”

“When you start going to the toilet for something to do, it’s time to get out of the house.”

“Then I’m not bored. I like doing nothing.”

“Me too. I need to get some furniture for Mum’s stuff but I can’t be bothered.”

“Just order from Ikea or something.”

“I can’t afford Ikea. I was thinking of going more downmarket. Perhaps…Pikea.” He giggles.

“Jesus,” I say, smiling. “How long have you been waiting to use that?”

“About three weeks.”

“I think this is a good time to end the conversation,” I say. “Good bye.”

I try to write for a few minutes but the football is on soon and I’m tired of thinking and I have made an effort at least. Cheryl will be home soon. She is upset because yesterday, as I was calling her mobile, she had an ironic car crash while trying to clamp her Bluetooth headset to her ear. When she got home (it is still driveable) I told her that I hadn’t renewed the car insurance and I kept up the joke for a good couple of hours, long after she had burst into tears and I had become scared to admit the truth. Almost twenty-four hours later, she is still sulking. I should put some clothes on and get some £3.99 flowers from the petrol station. But the thought of putting socks on bores me so instead I lie down in front of Wimbledon and try not to get annoyed.