Been two years now and still no clue what to do with this :(

At five to seven, Danny’s hairy bulk lurched to the right, snorted and projected a fist at his set-for-seven alarm. The fist followed its usual trajectory with the cold instinct of a homing missile, only to waver and unfold into five merciful digits on touchdown.

The smooth plastic cube of the clock was then cradled in his palm and taken to his haggard midweek brow. Tick, tick, tick, twitched the second hand, driving a corkscrew of consciousness deeper and deeper into Danny’s cranium. Boiled eggs and Marmite, he thought and opened his eyes. It was seven on the dot.

For all his shortcomings, Danny had one talent which imbued his every act: perfect timing. It had seen him through all manner of ills mainly brought on by his triad of passions for cycling, the Guardian and Manchester United. Indeed, up until his marriage four years before, Danny had coolly picked his way through a life of wayward cutlery, stale corporate incentives and airborne stilettos, timing and tackle intact.

At ten past seven, Danny’s plastic teaspoon gave the first of two steaming, creamy yolks a cursory stir. As if on cue, the twirl of tape in his stereo began to unfurl some languid Mahler between the muted ochre of his walls. But suddenly, there was a high-pitched bleep. It was the key meter, down to one credit.

Danny ambled across the polished sycamore floor of his rented apartment and opened the meter cupboard. He took the key out and was just about to shut the door when he noticed something hanging off the meter. Then, with his left thumb and forefinger, he carefully peeled the black nylon stocking off the side of it. The piece of limp lace left a startlingly dust-free stripe on the whirring metal lump. Danny heard his stomach give a loud rumble and shut the cupboard door.

Taking a deep breath, Danny then went to his desk, opened his laptop and selected radio two. A throng of ebullient voices sprang forth from his speakers, predicting lasting good weather. He flung his arms out and began to do a little dance on the spot but nearly slipped on the stocking from the meter.

Without hesitation, he stepped to his large window, impatiently fumbled with the heavy curtains then pulled the swivel pane ajar. His extended left arm, now a flag to all singles, was holding the flapping stocking out in the spring breeze. Ten floors down, a multitude of lurid early morning dots was swirling, pulsating and pouring down into underground channels as far as Danny could see. He narrowed his eyes; the ebb and flow of the dots was now, curiously, in perfect time with Mahler seeping through the thick cloth of his curtains against his skin. Danny found the scene oddly reminiscent of Citizen Kane. He released the stocking, which floated gracefully off. Bye bye missie, he thought and shut the window.

Danny's stomach gave a second, menacing rumble. Must be seven-thirty, he thought and, seconds later, was struck by a jingle of confirmation from the radio. Then the news headlines: Labour’s historic third term… Conservatives seek leader… economic fears for the next three years…Manchester United takeover imminent. A rush of spasms raced up his spine, entered his brain and bounced off the rucked up folds of frustration there. He took a deep breath. The musty air from his curtains fast-forwarded his thoughts to the teachers’ room, his colleagues and the token communal pot plant by the rattly window. I’ll be finishing late today, he thought and flexed his tired toes.

The shower at twenty to eight. Yess....Hot, cold, hot, cold... The opaque curtain clung to his tattoos across his back and upper arms like he had been to his whiskey glass over the last three and a bit years. Ten more hours, he thought and stared into the piercing jets of water for as long as he could. Can’t see you now, he cried out. You. Are. Gone. Now. Helen. It was three years, five months and twenty-one days since his wife’s death. Every day he woke to her image etched on the insides of his eyelids; every night he drank till it was gone, gone, and with it the mock concern of his solid and personable daytime self. His stream of drinks then oozed into his grief, swelled and stirred it until it burst and sprayed his soul with darkness.

The eight o’ clock news and Fran Godfrey from the other side of the door brought Danny round. She had been something of a wonder to him ever since he first heard her. And now, no other voice or force could soothe and coax him into caring to dry between his toes, finding a pair of matching socks and giving his glasses a quick polish. He promised himself never to take a peek at any webcam shots on the radio two website to rule out any possible disappointment.

Microscopic particles from space rain down on Earth, said Ms. Godfrey, starting on her “cute slot” news. Danny threw his clothes on, did the washing up, rubbed some extra hold into his hair and fumbled for his keys. More for you in an hour, reported Ms. Godfrey just before Danny silenced Terry Wogan.

At five past eight, Danny put his trainers on and snatched up his backpack but then threw it back down. He unzipped its outer compartment, took his keys, wallet and phone out and pocketed them. Sorted, he thought. But the dull whirring sound from the meter cupboard on his left stopped him in his tracks. He opened it and flicked the mains switch. Thick silence fell around him. That’s it, he said and left.