The best just got better. How good is that? How good must that be? That must be pretty damn good, huh? That’s got to be good. Or it could be good. It might be good. It probably is quite good. Definitely good, I’d say. ‘I’d say it’s good,’ my mind pipes up from where it lies sprawled out gracelessly upon the sofa. How to describe my mind? He is tall and lanky with a scraggly untidy forked beard, faded blue jeans and a bad attitude. A kind of cocky attitude, you could say. We don’t really get on, my mind and I, as you can probably tell from the less-than-flattering tone of my description. It’s not that I hate him but rather that I can’t help seeing him as being somewhat immature and self-centred. Which aren’t the most attractive of characteristics as we all know. He’s just a bit of a wanker, when all is said and done. He’s a bit of a tosser. A total tosser, in fact. If he ever got off the sofa to do a bit of work that would be something. Not that anyone has ever seen that happen of course! Not that they ever would. ‘Get a fucking job you hippie wanker,’ I growl angrily, ‘do something useful for a fucking change.’ My mind ignores me however and continues watching some shit on the TV. My mind always ignores me – sometimes I wonder if it actually ever hears a word that I say. ‘Get up off the fucking sofa you bastard!’ I shout, losing my rag entirely. Losing my cool. It’s not that I hate him, all the same. I’m just frustrated with his laziness and his continual bad attitude. I think he needs a short sharp shock but I’m not the one to get involved in that. That’s a job for the proper authorities, I say to myself, not a matter to be taken into my own hands. Margaret Thatcher would have sorted the likes of him out, I mutter angrily, unable to let the whole thing go. Nothing wrong with my mind that a good kick in the pants won’t sort out, I think slyly. I smile as I imagine myself doing just that. I imagine the look on his smug self-indulgent face when he catches a damn good kick right in the arse. A good solid kick, catching him squarely in the pants and without him seeing it coming either! My smile grows wider and wider. I can just picture his expression – shock and pain combined! The perfect combination. Shock and sharp pain expertly combined to create the perfect remedy for the unbearable indolence and fecklessness that my wretched mind typifies. ‘How do you like that you, you little shit? I imagine myself asking him. ‘You didn’t see that coming now did you, you dumb fuck?’ That would sort the bastard out. There’s no point in talking to him. Talking doesn’t work with my mind, as I believe I’ve already said. Talking is just a waste of time…