day three week forty four year two

20 May 2015

take care to press the correct button, silence the clocks's noise Pull up the knees, let the feet fall over the bed's edge and use the arm to lever the body upright. A hot shower, hear the rain outside, a rainy spring day. A rainy day in May. clothes on, Collect all the items and leave the building for the sodden street. The sun is up behind the clouds.

There is a girl, a young woman, walking down the street in a white jacket, white wedge heeled boots and blue jeans. Her pitch black hair tied back in a long ponytail, swings from ride to ride with every step. As she goes through the city gate she unfurls her umbrella.

Dolores is at the bus stop, raincoat, and plastic cowl over her head. Smiles on account of the bedraggled appearance of this new arrival.

Birds whistle, seem to be undisturbed by the dour pouring ruin. The river is leaden-looking in the background, sluggish and reflecting the grey clouded why.

At the Station, on a Wednesday, rainy weather, there's the smoker, with his pigtail outside the square. Carrying an umbrella over his head, the way one should, smoking away, rain shielded.

grins, and "Haugen".

stress full Anastasia, much to do on her own.

Big Blondie is late yet again. Still, the coffee is there soon, it is there for all.

There is a train strike on today, and one look at the big notice board confirms that the six oh- eight train is unaffected by the excitement..

The pills are not missed these days, combating the foul behaviour of the superiors at work no longer needs their help. No rapport is rapport when it continues indefinitely. Nothing to mask any more.

It is spring, turning to early rummer, there is more joy gleaned from left than the darkness that used to pass by the trains windows in the winters wintertime blackness.

Now it is a soft green landscape with glittering tarmac roads under an even grey sky. A fresh mind under the cloud of depressive thoughts.

There is a forty four minute wait at firing railway station. a coffee in that cafe there, another one on the road, or the tracks, or whatever. They are slow here, bud waddafuk.

White lady has gone to her bus, in fury at the break in her routine. The reliability of regular service spoils.
 The local train arrives and rests at its platform .-

And waits. 

Forty minutes