I haven't washed,or brushed my teeth and am in need of a shave. All i've cared to do is drag a brush through my hair, and put on my black snorkel-parka.
The bus, with the same driver who delivered me safely here two hours ago, is bang on time. "Thank-you sir", he greets, politely, casually glancing at the bus-pass that he had sold me earlier , i go upstairs, and make myself comfortable, appreciating the rise in temperature, compared to outside. Big mistake.
I intended not to nod off. I ALWAYS intend, not to nod off. Well, greenbelt, and various villages passed without my knowledge, and before i'd had time to rub my eyes, the police station, my get-off stop, was looming , and thank who-ever, that somebody else had rung the bell to get off.
The bells of St.Peter's chimed ten, as i made my way down a back-alley to the library, and soon i was back in the warm.Whatever happened to that mythical hush of the public library?Or has it always been a precisely that? A myth. There was noise, the sound of people busying themselves, and screaming kids, preparations were in progress it seemed, for some sort of exhibition.
I don't do noise.
I don't do people.
Screaming kids an absolute no'no.
And i don't do exhibitions.
No books caught my eye, and Frydays beckoned.
Hot chips and an empty bus-shelter, dither's desert island.
Y'know?The times i've sat there, wondering how Downan is, hoping that he's okay. And then i see him with his shoulder-length yellow hair, hobbling painfully,around the cornmarket,checking-out the litter-bins, and i wish that i could be some place else. I wish there was something i could do to help. Ground,please swallow me up.Well at least he's not dead.
As i ate my chips, i sat staring into cracks in the pavement, in the hope that i might day-dream, inviting thoughts,feelings and emotions, to flood in, but nothing happened, and i can't say that i minded really.
The bus back arrived and i wasn't sorry to board.
I just wanted to go home.
Not a day for dithering.:nonchalance: