midnight motorway noises
31 August 2007
october 2006?
Sifting through twenty four years of nonsense is not my ideal way of spending a sunny, blustery friday afternoon. But needs must, and as I packed my suitcase ready for another adventure (if a somewhat more familiar one than from that which from which that I've just returned...) I found a note I must have scribbled to myself late one night last year. Funny that it should resurface now, the day before I wander back down that street I call home so regularly and so happily...
Walking home, the orange-lit taxis flash past me but I'm not bothered.
The Maggie smells like three-day old chip fat, the way your grill pan smells when nobody's washed it for weeks. It's still early though, so no one's there.
I'm on the railings side and a guy in a red t-shirt with a half-full pint glass in his hand is being sick through the bars... Either that or he's spitting mouthfuls of tennents - either way he's had enough, clearly.
A familiar face passes across the road. He doesn't see me, or maybe he does but some old story weighs his head back down and his eyes toward the pavement. I walk on, trying not to wonder.
Further still's the queue. They're ready for a large one, ready for their night. Awake and on mobiles - we're in the queue come up.
I'm unintentionally in step with the music in my ears, but don't correct it, as if I could.
A girl in cut-off trousers zig-zags across the bridge unaware of the traffic, gabbing intently to two friends, I catch only - well. I think that's... that's admirable - before they're out of earshot leaving me to my imaginings.
Twenty-four hour shop, rizlas and munchie food about now. The biggest dog I've ever seen. I look up out of the corner of my eye and smirk as I pass. Encouraging shouts from his boozed up owner follow me - don't do that smirk and then just walk by - I do though and I'm nearly home.
I round the corner and it disappears again. Great Western Road for another night. My empty purse my saviour.
Walking home, the orange-lit taxis flash past me but I'm not bothered.
The Maggie smells like three-day old chip fat, the way your grill pan smells when nobody's washed it for weeks. It's still early though, so no one's there.
I'm on the railings side and a guy in a red t-shirt with a half-full pint glass in his hand is being sick through the bars... Either that or he's spitting mouthfuls of tennents - either way he's had enough, clearly.
A familiar face passes across the road. He doesn't see me, or maybe he does but some old story weighs his head back down and his eyes toward the pavement. I walk on, trying not to wonder.
Further still's the queue. They're ready for a large one, ready for their night. Awake and on mobiles - we're in the queue come up.
I'm unintentionally in step with the music in my ears, but don't correct it, as if I could.
A girl in cut-off trousers zig-zags across the bridge unaware of the traffic, gabbing intently to two friends, I catch only - well. I think that's... that's admirable - before they're out of earshot leaving me to my imaginings.
Twenty-four hour shop, rizlas and munchie food about now. The biggest dog I've ever seen. I look up out of the corner of my eye and smirk as I pass. Encouraging shouts from his boozed up owner follow me - don't do that smirk and then just walk by - I do though and I'm nearly home.
I round the corner and it disappears again. Great Western Road for another night. My empty purse my saviour.
