Sunday, Sunday

Sweet Sunday, cool and over cast, quiet and still. Missy rubs against my leg, as I check my emails.

I grab a jumper and check my hair, a bit messy but would pass. I head to the milk bar for the newspaper, with ideas that I'm not going to waste the entire day. You know, already out in the day, I've left the house.

I come face to face with a group of three wog boys, on the first corner. You've got to love an eighteen year old wog boy, in a pair of track suit pants, he's had for a few years, if you know what I mean. As they talked about their stash, he grabbed his bulge right on queue, as they disappeared passed me in a rustle of cotton.

It was cold, I shivered as the wind hit me and hunched myself tight. The grey-haired old woman, in a red tartan shirt, was walking four small rat things on stretchy leads. She held her scarfed throat and grimaced, as if she'd just smelt the shit she had stood in, against the cold.

I catch my reflection in a shop window, I look like Rod Stewart. I tried to push it down, but that just makes it worse, kind of uneven.

My neighbour, Tim, marched right passed me. I was waiting for eye contact and that smile of recognition, but it never came. He was face down and marching into the wind, mentally embracing it, if you like.

My neighbour, Richard, followed Tim. We had matching hair in the air, but I'd just rolled out of bed for the newspaper, he was fully prepared and heading out some where. We looked at each other like we were women caught out in the same dress, or was that just my stoned eyes? I couldn't help but giggle, once we'd passed.

The light was glowing, the sky was a translucent silver. I took a good look at the buildings, took them all in, with new eyes. I thought of Hanoi. This is where I live.