Tuesday January 30,2018
Pull the grey bin out and put it in its place at the entrance to the house. The contents will be collected later.
It is raining, the streets are shining, greasy. Because of the street lamps, the colours are reduced, and because of the dark there are shadows everywhere. It is five thirty five in the morning, there are trucks in the main street, unloading items for the days sales. There are no other vehicles there, it is a pedestrian zone. The ducks are on the lawn at the weather station, they are quacking loudly. They have not been fed yet, they seem to to get used to this, this daily feeding. The bus shelter is crowded today. Dolores, the bog cotton man, the teacher, and the smart young man. They are all in there, sheltering from the rain. utter a good morning for dolores, for the man with the white hair.
Count the money out for the bus driver, be the last to board the bus. Give the money to the bus driver. Spend the really short journey watching the bellows at the bus's joint expand and contrast as it takes the various corners. The round plate on the floor charges its position too. A feat of engineering.
At the station, see the smoker leave his post. It is probably no fun smoking in the rain. The rain is heavier now, too.
The dark haired girl in the cafe is slow, methodical, one after the other and next please. But the coffee is rerfectly good today.
Ahead, going down the lung granite stairway to the tunnel, a red head long haired girl, parka, black light trousers, flat shoes. Reaches up to adjust the hair, the parka Sway to the one side, just taking a step down the stairway. Just in that instant, she looks like a 1950's fashion drawing, all the attention to the hang of the fabric, to the fit of the soft fabric of the parka, The perfectly aligned fur lining of the hood and the hair, the colour combination of red combed hair and matt green parka just for the split part of a second.
She avoids the yellow puddle at the bottom of the stairs and strides off tom the passage. The illusion is over.
There is a cyclist on the platform, The man with the LED-lit cuffs on his trouser He is thoroughly wet, and in the train, his damp gear is everywhere.
Pull the grey bin out and put it in its place at the entrance to the house. The contents will be collected later.
It is raining, the streets are shining, greasy. Because of the street lamps, the colours are reduced, and because of the dark there are shadows everywhere. It is five thirty five in the morning, there are trucks in the main street, unloading items for the days sales. There are no other vehicles there, it is a pedestrian zone. The ducks are on the lawn at the weather station, they are quacking loudly. They have not been fed yet, they seem to to get used to this, this daily feeding. The bus shelter is crowded today. Dolores, the bog cotton man, the teacher, and the smart young man. They are all in there, sheltering from the rain. utter a good morning for dolores, for the man with the white hair.
Count the money out for the bus driver, be the last to board the bus. Give the money to the bus driver. Spend the really short journey watching the bellows at the bus's joint expand and contrast as it takes the various corners. The round plate on the floor charges its position too. A feat of engineering.
At the station, see the smoker leave his post. It is probably no fun smoking in the rain. The rain is heavier now, too.
The dark haired girl in the cafe is slow, methodical, one after the other and next please. But the coffee is rerfectly good today.
Ahead, going down the lung granite stairway to the tunnel, a red head long haired girl, parka, black light trousers, flat shoes. Reaches up to adjust the hair, the parka Sway to the one side, just taking a step down the stairway. Just in that instant, she looks like a 1950's fashion drawing, all the attention to the hang of the fabric, to the fit of the soft fabric of the parka, The perfectly aligned fur lining of the hood and the hair, the colour combination of red combed hair and matt green parka just for the split part of a second.
She avoids the yellow puddle at the bottom of the stairs and strides off tom the passage. The illusion is over.
There is a cyclist on the platform, The man with the LED-lit cuffs on his trouser He is thoroughly wet, and in the train, his damp gear is everywhere.
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