Dec 11, 2017 the sound of strumming from the tablet, it is on the writing table. Get up, walk to the end of he bed, and turn it off. In the bathroom, turn on the shower, use the toilet, take the night clothes off. It is really cold, but so what, the water is warm. Wash the body, wash the sleep away as well as it will go, wash the hair. Dry, use the yellow towel hanging the hook.
And dress for a working day, take all the pills, and, just as the church bells ring twice, leave the house.
The sheets are cold, the cobbled alley reflect the light from the lanterns in a greasy sort of way. It is as if the water were less fluid than usual. They seem slippery but it is just dirt and damp.
On the main street all the christmas huts alone been put up. Wooden shattering, rough planks and bits of christmas tree foliage, red plastic effigy of Father Christmas, reindeers in plastic. Beauty is elsewhere, it is not in a deserted christmas market at five thirty n the morning.
At the bus stop, there is the white haired man, the bag cotton one, coming up the path from
the riverside walk. And Dolores is in the bus stop shelter, with her new Leopard skin patterned handbag.
Watch huge trucks pass on the main rgud, avoiding motorway tolls. Big, sinister, dark, coloured brown and grey. Portably just delivering the most harmless of things. But it looks sinister. Three such trucks pass. Ignore them. In the distance coming around the corner by the gaol, there is the bus. Low boxy and wide, the illuminated destination signs on top. It seems to wiggle in its motion, like an insect. Perhaps this illusion is due to its being an articulated vehicle, with a plastic bellows covering the join between front and rear parts.
Pay the driver, and get on hehind the bog cotton man and Dolores. Find a seat, go into a daze. at then, at the railway station, take a huge coffee, as always. The sevice person has it on before the order is spoken. It is always the same. The big man with the brown jacket and the white hair always drinks a large coffee , black, whilst writing at the small table.
That is it.
And dress for a working day, take all the pills, and, just as the church bells ring twice, leave the house.
The sheets are cold, the cobbled alley reflect the light from the lanterns in a greasy sort of way. It is as if the water were less fluid than usual. They seem slippery but it is just dirt and damp.
On the main street all the christmas huts alone been put up. Wooden shattering, rough planks and bits of christmas tree foliage, red plastic effigy of Father Christmas, reindeers in plastic. Beauty is elsewhere, it is not in a deserted christmas market at five thirty n the morning.
At the bus stop, there is the white haired man, the bag cotton one, coming up the path from
the riverside walk. And Dolores is in the bus stop shelter, with her new Leopard skin patterned handbag.
Watch huge trucks pass on the main rgud, avoiding motorway tolls. Big, sinister, dark, coloured brown and grey. Portably just delivering the most harmless of things. But it looks sinister. Three such trucks pass. Ignore them. In the distance coming around the corner by the gaol, there is the bus. Low boxy and wide, the illuminated destination signs on top. It seems to wiggle in its motion, like an insect. Perhaps this illusion is due to its being an articulated vehicle, with a plastic bellows covering the join between front and rear parts.
Pay the driver, and get on hehind the bog cotton man and Dolores. Find a seat, go into a daze. at then, at the railway station, take a huge coffee, as always. The sevice person has it on before the order is spoken. It is always the same. The big man with the brown jacket and the white hair always drinks a large coffee , black, whilst writing at the small table.
That is it.
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