Wednesday, 26 June 2013

The Plastic Eye

I must have been down here before a thousand times without really seeing it.

The postman says the place I need is on the 4th floor. Go through a smoked-glass door.

Can't miss it.

Grey phone on a grey desk.

Half an hour to kill so I head on back to the street.

Green bench on green grass. Light a cigar.
Shiver in the thinness of my skin so I get up and walk.

The path leads down to The Mayflower Theatre. Poster for a pantomime with stellar cast. Picture of Nigel Havers who hasn't aged a day since 1974. Julian Clary who has...

Turn back.

A stone hut that's had its edges worn smooth:
a sort of igloo gathering moss.
A wooden door painted red.

Time to go.

Cross a street where I once had an altercation with a cyclist who thought that he was exempt from stopping at red lights.

A bar with silver tables set on the pavement Mediterranean style.
Too cold for anyone except for die-hard smokers to sit at them.

I dial the number just like the postman said.
Wait at the desk where the receptionist
has been replaced with a plastic eye set in the ceiling.

4 comments:

  1. wonderful writing! thank you,

    ReplyDelete
  2. Nice, as ever, to hear from you. Thank you. The window shopping, the only kind I do, has been wonderful too.

    ReplyDelete
  3. "Shiver in the thinness of my skin..." - what a superb line. So many of yours are, but that one particularly stood out :)

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Thank you Kim. Now I feel a lot warmer.

      Delete

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