Tonight, as Tesco's microwave taglietele settles in my stomach and the effect of succesive cups of tea (tea, tea, tea, do you want some tea with your tea? monologue all day) wears off, I write an essay.

It is on Homi Bhabha and the concept of colonial revisionism and cultural critique and postcoloniality and modernity and difference and alterity within the self and Freud and Lacan and Derrida and Foucault, though not really Foucault, no, he doesn't really rate Foucault, I've noticed. Doesn't rate him at all, the big number 10, with his power and his genealogies. Doesn't rate him at all.

I'm tired.

Too tired, some would say.

It continues apace. Why are words suddenly so hard to come by? I reach for them, but they're not there. Not the ones I want anyway.

What's wrong with Jane Austen? Shakespeare? Why, why WHY Homi K. Bhabha?

Why?

I ask. No-one answers.

(silence) END
Curtain closes.