here is Daniel's story:
She stared at the vinyl and, for a minute, felt like she was being pulled into its finely-grooved vortex. She glanced to her side and realised that any casual observer might assume that she was listening just as intently as the other cats to Tunnel of Love. She wasn’t, of course. She was simply allowing the spinning black record album to work its hypnotic spell; to carry her back to a life before the Cat Boat.
Like the time when she made her own music. Two record albums of her very own doing were stocked in shops, in fact. (Admittedly, she did owe a lot to her producer who, in turn, owed everything to his engineer.) And she was lauded by critics. She had the kind of MySpace friends that you really give up counting when you get past the 10,000 mark. Then she began sending out bulletins when drunk but would be rewarded by words of encouragement from fans as far away as
However, Harold couldn’t feel love. And she certainly didn’t love herself. She had never fitted in. Never belonged. She didn’t on dry land and she certainly didn’t at sea. She was one of 114, she would regularly remind herself – just in the hope that she could feel the way the others on the Cat Boat seemed to feel - but she was also one of one, as some rasping voice from somewhere deep down inside her would often counter.
Yet, making her even lonelier and unloved, she had recently come to the conclusion that she was simply one of thousands. Maybe millions.
She had never much cared for Bruce Springsteen either.