10 May 2007

Paddington Blues

Forth day sober. Low pressure, narrow footpaths, hours at work are ticking away slower than usual. Office bash, attendance almost compulsory, quick stroll through a park right into a cage of four walls. Guitar, demos, mail, litres of sugar water and irrefutable desire for a cigarette. Can't be. Joyous news of tax cuts for the next financial year on a telly. Vote, bitch, we feed ya.

Fabulous!

A street. Young night pulse decorated by hammered seventeen-year-old chicks forgotten in hypnotising centre of crazed warhols and primitive hopefuls after a weekend. All good, movie clubs crowded by semi-intellectual jerks, midnight bookstores hiding young couples in love, darksome fellows on stairs passing a pipe around, guess Charlie Parker's one of them.

Pubs are hives of tireless night bees.

Blackcurrant juice instead of a fix. Thirst still hurts.