Town before work, Christmas shopping. Walking on the wet cobblestones of the shopping precinct, Van Morrison whispering down from speakers in the walls. Look up into the echoing cold above the store fronts, above the Christmas lights, at the empty rafters, the unadorned fixtures; dirty glass, smeared bird droppings, two pigeons fluttering. Paint chipping grime encrusted interstitial spaces, forgotten and lonely, sighing down, mocking all human endeavour. Hurrisome noise fading into oblivion.
Coffee house, hanging tangle of fairy lights, golden lamps, shoppers ducking in away from the crowds. Chinese student on Macbook. Bearded rumpled man with Lenovo laptop. Girls in hoodies slurping iced lattes out of red-and-white helical striped straws.
The smell from the fishmongers, pungent and warm. The chintz of moulded merry-go-round horse, whinnying round to nowhere. John Lewis perfume department, escalators, coruscating glassware, and the threadbare corners of carpet, the sneaker-smudged varnished floors, the wooden veneers cracked and peeling.
Take in these moments, these truths, the quiet thusness of the world before the lashing hell of the bar shift, swirling cacophony of cackling jostling humans, sallow, slack-jawed faces, clamouring for salvation, rushing into mindlessness, the very opposite of what any of us need.
Back tomorrow morning for ten more hours. Then ten more hours Sunday. Then I’m off for Christmas. I can’t wait.
……
Music: If you want me to stay, Sly and the Family Stone.
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