Thursday, 29 May 2014

In Town: On my way into work at 6am, the lank-haired transvestite in the flared capri pants...

In Town:
On my way into work at 6am, the lank-haired transvestite in the flared Capri pants and anorak was rolling a cigarette by the bins near the open market, she glanced up as I passed, “It’s a bit wet, pet” she said, sneering up at the weather.

Later, in the suburbs:
Four women in their thirties passed me near the junction box that has been vandalised with the slogan WALTER SCOTT IS A BATTY BOY. They walked two abreast with arms folded tight, the hoods of their bath robes pulled over their heads against the driving rain. The old man whose garden smells of chives was putting out his bins. He saw the women pass and rolled his eyes, blood from a nose bleed congealing thickly on his top lip.
On the corner of the main road out of town, the man with the ear defenders and jackhammer paused to stare at the young Asian woman in the dark glasses and the brand new Porsche Panamera.

Out in the sticks:
The sun has come out and there are dog walkers with ski poles, gaiters and fleece jackets. Only the pony’s head is visible above the sea of yellow in the buttercup field. There are rhododendrons, stripy lawns, BMWs (summer), Range Rovers (winter), and those panelled front doors that look like massive chocolate bars. Queues of men in shorts and T-shirts stand outside the Sandwich Barn, all pumped up torsos and skinny legs, and the old man in full motorcycle racing leathers pulls off his helmet to reveal a somehow immaculate and astonishing 1970s hairdo.

Right out in the sticks:
The sun is out but the cow-parsley lined roads are still littered with leaves and twigs after all the wind and rain; crows scatter as I approach. There are broken Zafiras, Vitaras, ancient Land Rovers, and mucky trainers. There are midges too, and I think I saw a lone oystercatcher down by the reservoir. Puffs of pollen explode from the pine trees and I definitely heard a cuckoo.