there are sounds in the dark, the tablet is calling, saying it is time to get up and go to work. No, it is not, it is just playing it's strumming melody at five, as it was told to do every weekday.
One touch of the finger, and it is off.
Two hours later, at dawn, the son is at the side of the bed.
tap tap, time to waken.
Yesterday's promise, breakfast in a café,
Get up, go to the bathroom, brush the teeth, put on the clothes, the shoes and the jacket.
The son is up. putting on his shoes, combing his hair. His hair is long and red.
Out in the alley, a small orange street cleaning vehicle, it looks just like an insect, with two rotating brushes to the front, a small cabin for the driver, high mounted headlamps. It is sweeping the gutters, sucking the loose dirt into the big orange container behing the drivers cabin. A narrow little vehicle, it fits between the posts that are placed in a line across the road. The posts will stop all other motorised traffic.
Son and father pass the church and go down along the collonades at the side of the big wide shopping street. A cobbled street, large cobblestones, not big enough to be flagstones. Cross the street to the Mareis bakery, the son and father, and stand at the glass counter. The young black haired woman behind the counter, a person of exemplary patience, as the son makes his choice. He likes the big flat turkish-style bread loaves that are filled with cheese and tomatoes. And a bottle of flavoured water.
A coffee and a croissant, flaky pastry and black coffee for the father. Both sit there and enjoy, watch the trucks pass by outside. A big orange dumpster, with a large rotating drum excites comment.
After a while, the bread is finished and the bottle is empty.
Then the bottle needs to be returned, for the deposit.
Wait outside, cross the pedestrian shopping street.
A delivery truck rushes by.
Swerve
brake.
and that was nearly the end of this account,
for good and all
but as it is nothing happened, other than the driver venting his anger.
A frightened man taking an illegal shortcut.
One touch of the finger, and it is off.
Two hours later, at dawn, the son is at the side of the bed.
tap tap, time to waken.
Yesterday's promise, breakfast in a café,
Get up, go to the bathroom, brush the teeth, put on the clothes, the shoes and the jacket.
The son is up. putting on his shoes, combing his hair. His hair is long and red.
Out in the alley, a small orange street cleaning vehicle, it looks just like an insect, with two rotating brushes to the front, a small cabin for the driver, high mounted headlamps. It is sweeping the gutters, sucking the loose dirt into the big orange container behing the drivers cabin. A narrow little vehicle, it fits between the posts that are placed in a line across the road. The posts will stop all other motorised traffic.
Son and father pass the church and go down along the collonades at the side of the big wide shopping street. A cobbled street, large cobblestones, not big enough to be flagstones. Cross the street to the Mareis bakery, the son and father, and stand at the glass counter. The young black haired woman behind the counter, a person of exemplary patience, as the son makes his choice. He likes the big flat turkish-style bread loaves that are filled with cheese and tomatoes. And a bottle of flavoured water.
A coffee and a croissant, flaky pastry and black coffee for the father. Both sit there and enjoy, watch the trucks pass by outside. A big orange dumpster, with a large rotating drum excites comment.
After a while, the bread is finished and the bottle is empty.
Then the bottle needs to be returned, for the deposit.
Wait outside, cross the pedestrian shopping street.
A delivery truck rushes by.
Swerve
brake.
and that was nearly the end of this account,
for good and all
but as it is nothing happened, other than the driver venting his anger.
A frightened man taking an illegal shortcut.
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