Walk out of an office and slink down the road. Like a postcard from a ski resort; the ground is white. My socks are wet because my shoes are five years old and have holes (don’t feel sorry for me). It’s strange to see multiple tyre tracks gliding across the road smoothly colliding into curbs leaving behind the wreckage of 09 plate Mercedes Benz’s; wrapped elegantly around various lampposts of different shapes and sizes; as men and women in executive suits hang limbless out of the gap between the roof and ceiling where the door used to be, screaming “Why aren’t any of you lazy fucking grade E peasants helping me”.
On the tube a rough looking man with a purpose in his eyes is coloring-in the literature on the ceiling with a biro pen. He has long scraggy mousy-brown hair that curls outwards at his neck, fuzzy unkempt chestnut facial hair that fails to accentuate his strong jaw-line and a peculiar form of charisma about him that could equally suggest either charm or madness. He is wearing a huge amulet green jacket that’s pockets are filled with toilet-paper, chunks of cheese, empty bottles of Coca-Cola, second-hand socks, a psychedelic handkerchief and a stained pair of white pants. Showing everybody sat or stood up on the coach his Casio digital watch, he asks them all in-turn what the time is; taking each answer in contemplatively as if it brings new meaning every time he hears the phrase ‘seven O five’. He is stood up next to a seat that nobody will sit in.
No comments:
Post a Comment