On the underground a beautiful Egyptian girl and her friend have what appears to be an argument but its probably no more than a heated discussion about a scandalous co-worker. I witness excessive amounts of gesticulation between Bethnal Green and Tottenham Court Road. A suit in his mid twenties, who looks like a high-flying City type, scours the tube train carriage with intense clear jade eyes. Something about him says hes saving for the deposit on his first Canary Wharf apartment, and wont be a bachelor for long.
At Waterloo I notice a striking blonde girl, heavily tattooed arms sleeved, back covered, and from the amount her cowboy boots and skirt reveal, her legs too. For a minute I wonder if she might be a Suicide Girl: Jezabel perhaps? I reason that it is merely her cascading blonde hair making me think this...
Heading for platform 10, I suddenly feel like a city pack rat alongside all the suits; we scuttle, unified in our haste, towards the train. As the doors sweep open, pinstriped businessmen and women pour through like rats into a sewer. I silently vow to never be one of these.
A suit sat opposite me smirks complacently to himself as he finishes a Soduko puzzle in The Times newspaper. A red polka dot tie chokes the remaining ounces of personality from him; combined with a blue checked shirt and a navy pinstriped suit, it doesnt surprise me to look at his left hand and see his ring finger bereft of a wedding band. No woman would let her husband go to work in such an appallingly mismatched outfit.
Until Guilford, where most of the city types alight, I am surrounded by the vast pink sheets of the Financial Times the preferred reading material of the London suits. I begin to feel illiterate and uncultured reading my true-life Thai prison narrative, a graphic and interesting yet simple novel... The battery in my iPod is all but dead, but it was more important to me to have music on the tube than now.
This slow train stops at Haslemere for ten minutes so the faster train can overtake. The carriage is silent, despite the clamour of my internal monologue, and I feel alone with my thoughts.
I watched Mari (my step mum) shave Dads face today, as he puffed out his cheeks to ensure satisfactory closeness. When I arrived he was asleep. His face spoke volumes of his exhaust, so we let him sleep and went down to the tea room. She spoke in such a hushed tone I could scarcely hear her, despite the room being empty.
Dad will be cremated when such an event becomes necessary. Mari will keep his ashes and eventually have them combined and scattered with hers. She doesnt know where yet.
I dont want to think about his impending and inevitable death right now. I want someone with strong protective arms to hold me and not let go.
At Waterloo I notice a striking blonde girl, heavily tattooed arms sleeved, back covered, and from the amount her cowboy boots and skirt reveal, her legs too. For a minute I wonder if she might be a Suicide Girl: Jezabel perhaps? I reason that it is merely her cascading blonde hair making me think this...
Heading for platform 10, I suddenly feel like a city pack rat alongside all the suits; we scuttle, unified in our haste, towards the train. As the doors sweep open, pinstriped businessmen and women pour through like rats into a sewer. I silently vow to never be one of these.
A suit sat opposite me smirks complacently to himself as he finishes a Soduko puzzle in The Times newspaper. A red polka dot tie chokes the remaining ounces of personality from him; combined with a blue checked shirt and a navy pinstriped suit, it doesnt surprise me to look at his left hand and see his ring finger bereft of a wedding band. No woman would let her husband go to work in such an appallingly mismatched outfit.
Until Guilford, where most of the city types alight, I am surrounded by the vast pink sheets of the Financial Times the preferred reading material of the London suits. I begin to feel illiterate and uncultured reading my true-life Thai prison narrative, a graphic and interesting yet simple novel... The battery in my iPod is all but dead, but it was more important to me to have music on the tube than now.
This slow train stops at Haslemere for ten minutes so the faster train can overtake. The carriage is silent, despite the clamour of my internal monologue, and I feel alone with my thoughts.
I watched Mari (my step mum) shave Dads face today, as he puffed out his cheeks to ensure satisfactory closeness. When I arrived he was asleep. His face spoke volumes of his exhaust, so we let him sleep and went down to the tea room. She spoke in such a hushed tone I could scarcely hear her, despite the room being empty.
Dad will be cremated when such an event becomes necessary. Mari will keep his ashes and eventually have them combined and scattered with hers. She doesnt know where yet.
I dont want to think about his impending and inevitable death right now. I want someone with strong protective arms to hold me and not let go.
VIEW 9 of 9 COMMENTS
that last bit is sad hope you doing ok
and as for the rest of your entry
its for that reason im moving to brighton
*hugs about your dad*