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everything must go by zenone Packed out street today. Big mothers and small kids with ice lollie-stains clutter the pavement and I can’t keep my stride. Around the swaying old fella picking his nose (If you’re waiting for a bus mate- find a bus stop). Three clear strides now, almost…. Lurch. Big bloke barrelling out of Dixons. PHILIPS MIDI SYSTEM clutched under arm. Bloke has his eye fixed firmly on the space next to the telly in his flock papered council house and nothing else (what am I, Invisible?) Spend your cash on something useful mate, like the jacked up Cortina rotting in your driveway. I veer away kerbwards, and cross the street, meeting halfway a pack of lunchtime beers in suits. I break through them like surf, catching the lagered spray of their breath as they bellow and laugh over my head, then wash away behind me into the traffic noise. I check the bird in the mobile phone shop. No leg today. She’ s sitting behind the counter pulling cuticles or something. Estate Agents, Estate Agents, Bookies. And then I’m crossing the end of the pedestrianised section by the phone boxes and I can breathe a bit, find some peace. I see Samantha from school trying to stand her kid up. Its lying on its face screaming and the fat cow is trying to pick it up by its tracksuit hood. Then they’re gone and my own face is flashing in the window of Our Price. Summer Madness Sale. Everything must go. © 1999 zenone |
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