The GFT, the Skurge of my own roasted over-thoughts stood proud as it ever did these past few weeks, though more welcoming than most buildings for personal environmental reasons. After an hour *and five minutes* I placed my tickets on top of the trash box and left to walk down and through the threaded alleyways and streets looking for a ride home in this soaking weather. Got soaked. Sat paranoid and small in a chair on some square carriage hurtling thru hard headed puddles big enough to drown small animals and maybe even bigger animals in.
...pause...hold that thought...i have just recieved an email from
offer@gibberellinmoved.net stating that freelance home writers are needed urgently....my dear guardians of my email account have shielded me from the direct content of the message gobless em but have let it interrupt me anyway...i think there's nothing more dissatisfying than clicking on the trash can peg, i want a real fucking trash can i can store up all of the emails, i want a real address i can send them back to smeared with garlic butter and fish oil and my cat's breath for them to chew over...end of pause...let go of that thought...
And on the bus there was a retarded fellow telling stories of flooding in Blantyre. To a couple going to Shawfield Dog Racing to spend their Saturday evening. For a second I thought of shaking me head with a tut and 'gee can't you do anything better on a saturday night' kinda speech to myself. But then it sank in again that I was sitting alone in some ill gotten corner of a bus wet from rain, chilled to the bone and to the very red centre of my ticker.
I had stood, watching all the weirdos and feeling for the normal looking ones outside the cinema right until their partner's showed up. After my heart stopped raising it's head above the trench upon the sight of every shorter haired, slim cut figure coming into view from behind the brow of the hill - a concrete hill- everyone was already inside. Except one man who was picked up by a big Range Rover heading to the south Side I suspected. A man asked me where he could find his hotel and I told him and felt good. The Karma police would walk right by me, maybe even give me a nod, I thought. I didn't pay any of my attention to a fighting older couple bawling up the street and around the corner where their argument would echo and sound even more sinister as it crept over the cold walls of the cinema building and crawled over in and out of the manholes and rippled through the assorted puddles like the wind does sometimes in great gusts, varrying constantly and overtly flowing.
I hugged my scarf, and that was all I would hug.
I best be off now. I have a medical dictionary to read and a night to plunder. A long night it seems. I hate it when they put the clocks back.