Wednesday 15 November
Up, confusion.
There are two alarms. one from he clock, the other from the mobile pad computer. The one is an insistent beep, the other is a mellow sound of plucked strings.
Wash, shower, put a plaster upon the heel of the right foot, over the remains of that harmful blister.
Leave the house, closing the door softly behind.
There is a newspaper in the letter box, one of those free distributed papers. They are financed by advertising alone.
The fog is thinner today, the halos about the lights lighter. The cobblestones are not so fogwet greasy as yesterday.
There is a large flock of ducks outside the town gate, waiting for their daily feed. There is a man who
turns up every day at the same time to feed the birds. An unusual hobby.
Under the trees there is a small structure with a pointed roof. It contains all sorts of weather forecasting instruments, barometers and thermometers mainly.
The bog cotton man is at the bus stop, say the first good morning of the day.
Tell out the money for the bus driver, one euro and twenty cents.
Pass the smoker, at his place in front of the station, same as every day. Wish him good morning, too.
get into the cafe ahead of the crowd of Balkan building workers, the order made, The card stomped before the crowd comes in. They are loud and boisterous again, happy to see each other. They all have large heads, close cut hair, they are all wearing German work suits. They are all soiled with the work that they are doing every day, plasterers, bricklayers, who knows exactly, other than they
themselves.
The thoughts and memory of the cafe are blank today, except that there are fewer seats available than usual. All of those rickety structures have gone, any the more solid ones remain ,
Take the passageway under the tracks, and on up to the platform using that granite staircase. The train is punctual, people leave
get on Board before the doors dose find a seat. And write these notes on the twenty minute journey to F reising.
That daily work on the morning's travel to work.
Up, confusion.
There are two alarms. one from he clock, the other from the mobile pad computer. The one is an insistent beep, the other is a mellow sound of plucked strings.
Wash, shower, put a plaster upon the heel of the right foot, over the remains of that harmful blister.
Leave the house, closing the door softly behind.
There is a newspaper in the letter box, one of those free distributed papers. They are financed by advertising alone.
The fog is thinner today, the halos about the lights lighter. The cobblestones are not so fogwet greasy as yesterday.
There is a large flock of ducks outside the town gate, waiting for their daily feed. There is a man who
turns up every day at the same time to feed the birds. An unusual hobby.
Under the trees there is a small structure with a pointed roof. It contains all sorts of weather forecasting instruments, barometers and thermometers mainly.
The bog cotton man is at the bus stop, say the first good morning of the day.
Tell out the money for the bus driver, one euro and twenty cents.
Pass the smoker, at his place in front of the station, same as every day. Wish him good morning, too.
get into the cafe ahead of the crowd of Balkan building workers, the order made, The card stomped before the crowd comes in. They are loud and boisterous again, happy to see each other. They all have large heads, close cut hair, they are all wearing German work suits. They are all soiled with the work that they are doing every day, plasterers, bricklayers, who knows exactly, other than they
themselves.
The thoughts and memory of the cafe are blank today, except that there are fewer seats available than usual. All of those rickety structures have gone, any the more solid ones remain ,
Take the passageway under the tracks, and on up to the platform using that granite staircase. The train is punctual, people leave
get on Board before the doors dose find a seat. And write these notes on the twenty minute journey to F reising.
That daily work on the morning's travel to work.
No comments:
Post a Comment