day three week fortyone two thousand and fifteen

the beep sounds strange and muffled today, the brain is trying to modify the sound to something in a dream.
The beep wins, turn off the clock, turn of the pressure machine, disconnect the tubes. Like a machine, loaded for the day.
Morning wash, under the shower.
Gather the gubbings for work, and descend into the stairwell. The street is light, pre-dawn still, birdsong.
Yellow bags in groups at the doorways, return to the house, into the backyard where they are kept on account of their smell, and bring the families collection of packaging waste out to the street. This is all packed nicely in yellow bags.
The italian women, who are actually turkish, are at their fast food store again. They have a turk with them, who is busy telling them what to do. Typically.

At the bus stop there is the crutchman again, and the three shoppersons, one man, two women, pass.
The man wishes guten morgen and the women are wearing black tights and flat shoes.

The bus driver is happy to take the money, say good morning and give a ticket.
Donkeyscone, bittershone.

one man, inside the station’s smokers square, smoking, no pigtailed hair.
A different man.
Anastasia, doesn’t ask, just makes coffee.
derfs sonstnowas sein.
All laughs and smiles.
Big blondy is in the kitchen.
Hedgehog with his newspaper at the table.
No pen today.

Train drivers are on strike, and there are fewer people about today.

Using cars instead.