Harry and I met in a boozer by Clapham North and took in a few pints as the sun went down. It was still clement enough to sit outside and chat, smoke but one is becoming aware that the summer is beginning to shrink into the West. We’re not done yet but the edges are just beginning to curl.
By 10pm we set off and walked to Clapham North to catch the tube. The fucker was closed, planned engineering works that neither he nor I had planned. Harry bid me farewell and stepped into the night, I walked a couple of paces to the bus stop surrounded by shops and familiar buildings -a decade earlier this part of town had been my home. Nothing changed. All was strangely silent.
Clapham North had been much more of a home to me than Tooting ever was; it was pertinent that, when the fucking bus finally arrived, I could physically see the path to my temporary downfall. I watched a dark and silent London approach to wrap itself round and past my belligerent frame seated top front of the bus with arms folded. I should never have taken this direction, I thought, or perhaps, maybe I should’ve? Who knows, I might not have met IC if I’d headed East earlier…
I relaxed and settled on wishing it all farewell, fuck it all, I said out loud by accident as we hissed through Balham with its shops steel-shuttered shut, I felt the clouds of Tooting disperse, soon this place will be no more than a stain on a map, not my home.
On a completely different topic, one of my colleagues just interviewed a gentleman in his 60’s who pissed himself mid way through. He didn’t get the job.