Tuesday, 14 February 2012

Well here I am again.

I should be outside, frolicking in perfume, sucking on rose petals and washing in toffee... or what ever people do these days.

Instead I’m manacled to my desk like a tazered bear.

Worse than this I am going to have to use a bus at some point today.

I’m going to have to walk down an icy, crap-ridden path of doom to arrive in the back hole of town and wait in a ‘shelter’ that consists of two bits of graffitied  plastic slung together in what I assume the designer called a minimalist, futuristic, ergonomic, travel-hub but is actually just the side of a shed.

Then of course there is the ‘time table’ and I will concede that there are times listed in what could, arguably, be called a ‘table’ however we all know these times bear absolutely no relation to the  journey of the busses, they are simply placed there to provide some sort of vague comfort to the waiting hopeful. Their status as ‘truth providers’ is confirmed in our little minds because not only are they pinned to a lamppost but they are also laminated.

The set time passes once again but no travel conveyer arrives. The road stares at us, empty and full of mockery. Yet we remain ever hopeful, ever trustful, in a constant state of hypnotic thrall, under the spell of that which is laminated. Looking, checking, running our grubby little fingers up and down the list of random numbers as the rain spills into the necks of our open collared ‘fashion’ jackets.  

Until the last, tiny fraction of hope evaporates and we are left lonely, cold and in a state of utter despair. It is only when we reach this hopeless end, when we have barely survived the rat-faced torture of bus stop 101 that out saviour arrives, chundling down the street like a giant, lethargic, diesel-beast of Hades, it is then that we reach the nadir of human morality.

It is at this point that we betray every emotion we have felt, we forget every lesson we have learned and we become the turncoats of our own crusade. In our bedraggled, pitiful, contemptible state we lift our heads and raise our eyes to the greying, watery sky and utter the words that reveal our shameful hypocrisy:

‘Thank God’


  1. Ha ha, welcome to my daily hell my love.

  2. Well Unknown, if indeed that is your real name, thank you for welcoming me to hell, I’m confident that those deep and well thought out words of comfort will soothe me in my darkest moments.
    And am I your love? I’m sure I am since you say it with such confidence. In which case the champagne you had delivered to me this morning was strangely invisible. I suggest you rectify this.
    Many thanks
    Yours etc