As I write this, I'm starving, but I dare not go out for food.

My assassin could be anywhere.

Eventually I break down and prepare the meal of the desperate, two frankfurters scavenge

from the back of the fridge, boiled limp and naked, spoonful of mustard.

I am in genuine fear of being shot.

Everyone thinks that they would make a good hitman.

Whatever you think, you are just a bit braver than everyone else, steadier.

You would, you reason, be more likely to be calm under pressure than most.

Or you think that you're smarter.

You shout reproachfully at the criminals on the forensic shows the careless ones who get

caught.

You've learned from their mistakes and you will know when the time comes how the spatter

analysis should read, how not to leave your epithelials as you step soundlessly over

the threshold of your victim.

Or you play video games and therefore you are a systems thinker calculating the most

efficient way to achieve the objective is what you do.

You have been virtually aiming your whole life.

You've stolen uniforms made improbable mustaches out of cat hair if anyone can do this, it's

you.

Monday morning I wake at 6.30 am.

In the dark I pull my hair back.

I change into black, jogging gear.

...