-23 February 2016
The seaside melody from the mobile phone is hidden in a bag on the floor, cannot be found, and goes on and on.
And then into the bathroom, take a shower, shave a bit, and back to find the clothes for the day. The socks and underpants in the wardrobe, in those handy Scandinavian drawers. Bought in bits, assembled at home, and they actually work.
The glasses are on the piano in the living room and the cat is in the hallway, lamenting. There is no way to understand those feline female laments now, the street is waiting, but the bus will not wait. Due to tiredness, the result of a night of broken sleep, allow the streets to pass. The cobble covering is dug up in front of the neighbours' house in order to permit the fitting of a fresh drain, have been replaced with concrete and asphalt. A temporary repair. A white delivery truck drives down the main street, rumbling over the cobbles.
Bog cotton man is to be seen in the distance, standing in front of the bench beside the passenger's shelter at the bus stop. He is smoking a cigaretty. It is early to be doing that. The driver arrives in his bus, a young man with the hair on either, no, on both; sides of his head cut so close that it is stubble. The hair on the top of his head is finished as a sort of rock and roll style quiff. He is wearing earrings, many of them, all around the rims of his ears. He takes his money, gives his ticket, and drives just like any other bus driver.
The station front is busy, delivery trucks, the usual gathering of smokers and drinkers. It is very warm this morning, but the pig- tailed smoker is not there. BB serves coffee, she is in noisy form again today. She is making jokes with the her colleague of the shaved head. She makes the coffee, pressing all the right buttons.
Hedgehog is at his usual place, and the television is showing advertising for some patent cleaning substance. Again.
Descending the stairs to the tunnel leading to the platform a silvery-thing-flutters past. It is a cellophane wrapper, perhaps torn from a package of cigarettes. It floats down and then catches an updraught, and sinks again. It glistens in the lamplight, and rotates a few times. Then it sinks to the floor.
That is the end of today's performance.
The seaside melody from the mobile phone is hidden in a bag on the floor, cannot be found, and goes on and on.
And then into the bathroom, take a shower, shave a bit, and back to find the clothes for the day. The socks and underpants in the wardrobe, in those handy Scandinavian drawers. Bought in bits, assembled at home, and they actually work.
The glasses are on the piano in the living room and the cat is in the hallway, lamenting. There is no way to understand those feline female laments now, the street is waiting, but the bus will not wait. Due to tiredness, the result of a night of broken sleep, allow the streets to pass. The cobble covering is dug up in front of the neighbours' house in order to permit the fitting of a fresh drain, have been replaced with concrete and asphalt. A temporary repair. A white delivery truck drives down the main street, rumbling over the cobbles.
Bog cotton man is to be seen in the distance, standing in front of the bench beside the passenger's shelter at the bus stop. He is smoking a cigaretty. It is early to be doing that. The driver arrives in his bus, a young man with the hair on either, no, on both; sides of his head cut so close that it is stubble. The hair on the top of his head is finished as a sort of rock and roll style quiff. He is wearing earrings, many of them, all around the rims of his ears. He takes his money, gives his ticket, and drives just like any other bus driver.
The station front is busy, delivery trucks, the usual gathering of smokers and drinkers. It is very warm this morning, but the pig- tailed smoker is not there. BB serves coffee, she is in noisy form again today. She is making jokes with the her colleague of the shaved head. She makes the coffee, pressing all the right buttons.
Hedgehog is at his usual place, and the television is showing advertising for some patent cleaning substance. Again.
Descending the stairs to the tunnel leading to the platform a silvery-thing-flutters past. It is a cellophane wrapper, perhaps torn from a package of cigarettes. It floats down and then catches an updraught, and sinks again. It glistens in the lamplight, and rotates a few times. Then it sinks to the floor.
That is the end of today's performance.
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