banned to wait

Monday, Sept 18 2017
The street is bare and damp. And it is dark. The cobbled alley betweeen the houses is dark and very nineteenth century, all that is missing is the flickering of steaming gas lamps. A steam punk street, or alley. All you would need are a few hansom cabs, or coaches. Stop dreaming, proceed on down to the river. The only shop showing life is that bakery just by the town gate. The woman at the counter behind the glass front is putting the till in order, producing a loud clatter of coinage as she works. The only person at the bus stop now in the bog cotton man. He has had his hair cut, short. So he no longer looks like a bog cotton plant.
Wait, stand at the bus stop, behind the shelter. Look across the river, there is the hotel. Staff preparing breakfast in the glass-fronted breakfast room.
It is night, it is dark-Dawn may take mother half an hour to,
before it starts to illuminate things.
By the time the bus arrives, Dolores and the Teacher-like man are at the bus stop.. Let them all on board first, and count the coins for the fare to the driver.
sit at the back of the bus, behind that big elderly and germanic couple. and at the station, reach over to press the
button to open the doors, get out to walk across the bus station in front of the railway station. There is only one man there at the foot of the steps, a smoker, banned to wait on his cigarette, outside the station, cold dark and damp.
Inside the station cafe, there is the bald man with the beard, the head shining. He is wearing a baggy pair of jogging trousers, comfortable sportswear., and the T shirt.
a
In the waiting room a seat has been reserved, somebody has left their bags on it, a few things on the table, A comfortable person, organised. He is now getting coffee, a fastidious squeaky voice, a person who speaks through his nose, a person believing in his own superiority