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smokingbootOut on Lewisham High Street, a grubby man passes me and grins, gold teeth winking.
'Inchoo lovely!' He says, as he wanders off.
On the way back an old guy with a can of Tennants smiles at me. 'Tired,eh?' He says, soft pleasant voice.
Everyone seems so poor, dirty, old. But their faces aren't leering or creepy. They're OK really, ordinary.
Sunny cold morning, wet May.
Normal may not be round the corner. But it's not far away either.
'Inchoo lovely!' He says, as he wanders off.
On the way back an old guy with a can of Tennants smiles at me. 'Tired,eh?' He says, soft pleasant voice.
Everyone seems so poor, dirty, old. But their faces aren't leering or creepy. They're OK really, ordinary.
Sunny cold morning, wet May.
Normal may not be round the corner. But it's not far away either.
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Date: 2012-05-17 08:18 pm (UTC)x
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Date: 2012-05-17 09:04 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-05-18 06:55 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-05-18 06:56 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-05-18 07:07 am (UTC)Xx
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Date: 2012-05-18 07:18 am (UTC)And glad to hear that things are gradually becoming normal.
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Date: 2012-05-18 03:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-05-22 04:51 pm (UTC)Oh for the love of all the gods, the blue of the sky, the white horses of the wavetops, and if I'm honest for my own selfish desires.
Please, please don't drift into "normal"
For to be the Boot is to be the wildebeast in the shrubbery. The exquisite, albeit tiny, cut glass decanter discovered at the back of a dusty drawer containing newspaper clippings from the Telegraph. The sharp fresh cut strawberry scent of tomorrow's summer parties.
Normal serves its purpose, but it doesn't wear well when one's freckles show a map of the stars.
no subject
Date: 2012-05-23 04:22 pm (UTC)Don't worry master poet, the freckles, the stars and the wildebeast remain unchanged; that's normal for us.