waddle

13 March 2019
Hurry down the alley behind the church, cross the market street, the old town street. Walk over the brass stones set into the ground, the ones commemorating victims  of the Nazi régime. Atrocities that are not to be forgotten, personal fates in times of great oppression.

Hurry on down theatre street, past butchers and bakers, show shops and clothes shops. See the bus stop in the distance, there is a person on the bench in the bus shelter. That is Dolores, her being there means that the bus has not passed yet. This is a relief, wish her good morning.

There are a few ducks out on the pavement today, a group of three, walking about, quacking in a way that sounds indignant to human ears. They waddle hither and thither, maybe they are searching for fallen bread. They are just about their duck business. They do not fly, they walk. Or perhaps you could call it waddling.

The taxi driver man arrives, so does the bus.
Be the last to board, and pay the fare that has been carefully counted whilst waiting.