Idiot B - Part one
Idiot B watched his Wandsworth world on a bank of monitors, laid out in front of him stretched across the office which afforded a hoped for level of security to at least part of SW18.
London’s brown grey daylight, kissed the paving stones as yesterdays discordant news became today’s discarded history……caught up in gusts of windy discontent, paper tumble weed in wild, south west eighteen, transforming the mellow dark of night into a detritus dawn of harsh reality. No gentle sirocco down these unforgiving streets,
He needed to shave. The spiky reminder every morning, at the end of every night shift, a grey black pincushion of stubble encrusted his double, or was that treble? chins…..like satellite moons orbiting a countenance weary of this life, and possibly the next.
On the street, pushbike people began to emerge, spandex suited with streamline head gear, ducking in an out of a passing flock of London transports, sloth like , lumbering toward numbered destination…….fares please.
Surveying his territory over the South Side mall……he watched as eager first shoppers began to squeeze through the doors, heading for Waitrose or W.H. Smith, returning laden with purchases and packets of this and that for their respective homes, smiling at his distorted use of alliteration.
But……..at last…. time for his own journey home as the day shift entered the office – signed the necessary paperwork and bid Idiot B adieu. His journey would take only five minutes, dependant upon how long it took to negotiate the traffic while crossing Buckhold Road.
Smeared by the cool of an urban dawn the resident fox tiptoed around the perimeter of the blue and white high rise which they both called home… renard was looking for food safety and sex while idiot B simply sought rest after another night duty laced with tea and little sympathy. An out of order lift meant the stairs were taken two at a time inducing perspiration on a body so out of condition that the cellulite took on a neon glow, arrival on floor five was accompanied by out of breath gasping as would a fish out of water……..True, the gym across the road had been joined but it was a lip service agreement to a weight problem that required motivation and determination to shift. Giving up booze was one thing, but replacing it with exercise? I only look stupid, was the thought of the day.
The flat was small but pleasant and not worth what West London people were prepared to pay. It boasted a pleasing view over King George’s Park where suburban Swans waddled and paddled, shrieking annoyance at any human presence.
to be continued
London’s brown grey daylight, kissed the paving stones as yesterdays discordant news became today’s discarded history……caught up in gusts of windy discontent, paper tumble weed in wild, south west eighteen, transforming the mellow dark of night into a detritus dawn of harsh reality. No gentle sirocco down these unforgiving streets,
He needed to shave. The spiky reminder every morning, at the end of every night shift, a grey black pincushion of stubble encrusted his double, or was that treble? chins…..like satellite moons orbiting a countenance weary of this life, and possibly the next.
On the street, pushbike people began to emerge, spandex suited with streamline head gear, ducking in an out of a passing flock of London transports, sloth like , lumbering toward numbered destination…….fares please.
Surveying his territory over the South Side mall……he watched as eager first shoppers began to squeeze through the doors, heading for Waitrose or W.H. Smith, returning laden with purchases and packets of this and that for their respective homes, smiling at his distorted use of alliteration.
But……..at last…. time for his own journey home as the day shift entered the office – signed the necessary paperwork and bid Idiot B adieu. His journey would take only five minutes, dependant upon how long it took to negotiate the traffic while crossing Buckhold Road.
Smeared by the cool of an urban dawn the resident fox tiptoed around the perimeter of the blue and white high rise which they both called home… renard was looking for food safety and sex while idiot B simply sought rest after another night duty laced with tea and little sympathy. An out of order lift meant the stairs were taken two at a time inducing perspiration on a body so out of condition that the cellulite took on a neon glow, arrival on floor five was accompanied by out of breath gasping as would a fish out of water……..True, the gym across the road had been joined but it was a lip service agreement to a weight problem that required motivation and determination to shift. Giving up booze was one thing, but replacing it with exercise? I only look stupid, was the thought of the day.
The flat was small but pleasant and not worth what West London people were prepared to pay. It boasted a pleasing view over King George’s Park where suburban Swans waddled and paddled, shrieking annoyance at any human presence.
to be continued
posted by Innes at 9/06/2006 02:58:00 am
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