7 February 2018
sit at the side of the bed, drinking water from a bottle. The ipad lights up, the morning music starts. Reach over and silence the device before it gets any louder.
After showering, brushing the teeth, getting dressed, polishing the shoes and gathering the items for the day, put on the coat with the wallet in the pocket and leave the house. Walk down the dimly-lit alley and pass the church, the first sign of life is a man dressed in dark clothing hurrying down the street. He has a name tag attached to his belt by a holder made of plastic.
A white delivery truck, rumbling aber the cobbles, it has a noisy motor too, it passes the other way.
Later, two minutes later, at the bus shelter. there is the sad old woman, Dolores. She is there almost every day, the same sad expression, the same faux leopards him hard tag. Farther on, good morning to the bog cotton man. His hair is short now, when it was longer it used to blow about, it looked jast like the bog cotton in the dublin mountains. But it is just short and white now. He smokes a cigarette, there is a swath of strong smelling smoke. And down at the river, the main man feeding the ducks. He is calling to them, using a soft voice. Perhaps he has names for the ducks, perhaps he is telling them things about himself. The well dressed man has arrived, the man originally thought to be a Teacher. He stands there, waiting, looking disapproving.
The bus is now approaching out of the dark. The small white delivery truck leaves the pedestrian zone just ahead of the bus, accelerating to the best of it's ability. A squeal of types, madly roaring engine, a gear change to late, and it just passes through the closing gulf between the people at the bus stop and the now-nearing bus. And a cyclist hurtles past on his way to the station, using the footpath.
Board the bus, pay the fare to the driver, and sit down, looking forward to the cup of coffee in the "Yorma's" cafe at the railway station.
A cup of coffee now just finished, the cardboard cup discarded in the railway carriages nebbush container.
The railway part at the journey-at an end, arriving in Freisirg, and the morning notes done.
sit at the side of the bed, drinking water from a bottle. The ipad lights up, the morning music starts. Reach over and silence the device before it gets any louder.
After showering, brushing the teeth, getting dressed, polishing the shoes and gathering the items for the day, put on the coat with the wallet in the pocket and leave the house. Walk down the dimly-lit alley and pass the church, the first sign of life is a man dressed in dark clothing hurrying down the street. He has a name tag attached to his belt by a holder made of plastic.
A white delivery truck, rumbling aber the cobbles, it has a noisy motor too, it passes the other way.
Later, two minutes later, at the bus shelter. there is the sad old woman, Dolores. She is there almost every day, the same sad expression, the same faux leopards him hard tag. Farther on, good morning to the bog cotton man. His hair is short now, when it was longer it used to blow about, it looked jast like the bog cotton in the dublin mountains. But it is just short and white now. He smokes a cigarette, there is a swath of strong smelling smoke. And down at the river, the main man feeding the ducks. He is calling to them, using a soft voice. Perhaps he has names for the ducks, perhaps he is telling them things about himself. The well dressed man has arrived, the man originally thought to be a Teacher. He stands there, waiting, looking disapproving.
The bus is now approaching out of the dark. The small white delivery truck leaves the pedestrian zone just ahead of the bus, accelerating to the best of it's ability. A squeal of types, madly roaring engine, a gear change to late, and it just passes through the closing gulf between the people at the bus stop and the now-nearing bus. And a cyclist hurtles past on his way to the station, using the footpath.
Board the bus, pay the fare to the driver, and sit down, looking forward to the cup of coffee in the "Yorma's" cafe at the railway station.
A cup of coffee now just finished, the cardboard cup discarded in the railway carriages nebbush container.
The railway part at the journey-at an end, arriving in Freisirg, and the morning notes done.
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