Five fourty on a Sunday morning. Still mourning. Slip into a pair of skinnies. It’s summer, raining, fresh out. I’m fresh out. Don’t really like mingling, never been a fan of small talk. Got home to find a rude note shoved under my door. Knew I shouldn’t have gone along with this plan. Here I am, over and done with, my sub-editor would probably wanna edit that. Trusty pair of skinnies off, black leggings go. T-shirt’s too short, a longer white vest underneath. Something about dirty dogs or slashdogs, I hinted a couple of times and ended up keeping it. Guess I could give it back, it’s just kinda hard right now. Brown calve-high boots, three years old, still do the trick. A pale pink fifties cardi, pearly buttons, finish it off with the red and white sailor scarf from Vincent’s charity store. Hair still done up, aching for change, ears Art Decoed, lips in ‘girl about town’. Ready now, wrap the Madagascan chocolate bar, grab the keys and down stairs to the car. Pick up the Mac three blocks down, head off to Saxonwold for a healthy dose of empathy. “I cheated myself…” It’s all so strange but I feel at home and he can see I’ve got something special by looking in my eyes. Unconvinced I’m just myself, laden with regret that’s six months too late. “Five story fire as you came…” Rail Road Red sunk, swung by Gin couldn’t be bothered bout arriving alone. Much of it’s changing. Reintroduced. Reclaimed.
6:01 on a Sunday morning, sun’s come up the door cracks twice. Is this the norm or am I just outa place? Depending on your point of view, I clearly am. Think again before hanging washing on your private balcony, it disturbs the incontinent.
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