Friday Night

Light on at the top of the Unity Church Hall. Fire engines at rest in the garage. Geezers shirts out for a big night. Florence Street ends. Zebra crossing on Upper Street seems to be invisible. Lovers, women, lads. Routemasters diverted into Theberton Street. Flowers for Sunny Cracknell. Streams of people like the West End.

Settled in The Crown. It’s 10pm, so noisy after the soft cold night air. Couldn’t have taken this 40 minutes ago. It’s what fuelled my circuit. Every pub packed to the rafters, sweaty digusting vulgar. My loop brought me back to Sainsbury’s at which point it was here or nowhere. Friday nights are desperate, violent affairs. Everyone angry, letting off steam.
My table in the pub is in fact a desk, has drawers with brass handles. Writing in my notebook I’m like a schoolboy doing homework. The swot surrounded by the naughty kids. I finish my pint of Jack Frost and go home, my book – Q – the quest for spiritual purity of the reformation in Germany and the violence it inspired too relevant to my surroundings.


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