That day, the street blushed with a force-ripe sun, but modern life made me wonder, how do I escape from humans? —Jim McCrory
How to raise a child
Her hair is dyed silver, euphemistically speaking. Fattish in tight pants that accentuate the unseemly parts and stress the stitching. The child in the pram has a Gregg’s sausage roll partially submerged in her mouth with the wrapper blowing down the street. The mother swipes her mobile phone to listen to the next track on her playlist.
The Indians are coming.
It's spring. The daisies are out the sun gently fills the air with a comfortable temperature. The High Street is busy with a conspicuous glee and the busker man in cowboy hat and boots spoils the mood with endless melancholy songs sung with a Nashville accent. Someone in the flats above hits him on the head with an egg. Perfect shot. He moves his kit up street and he begins disputing for performing space with the Peruvian Indians who have arrived with their pan pipes and charangoes.
Protect the beer and fags at all costs.
The two men stand outside the pub with their half-empty or half full beer glasses; it depends on your viewpoint. They’re exhaling large clouds of cigarette spoke on passers-by with masks on. One seems too old for slim jeans and the grandad looks absurd with his saltire tattoo on his neck. They complain about the cost of living, the price of cigarettes and a pint. ‘The wife will need to go and get another job.’ The younger-old man says with a smirk.