other people's lives

okay, i know its been a while...so here are a few together...


I am on the 328 bus travelling home, after lunch in Fulham. It takes about 3 times longer to get anywhere by bus, than by tube. But i find, that as i am getting older, it seems i'm developping these neuroses, where one day's choice then becomes habit, which turns into compulsion. So the 2 hour journey back is necessary.
i'm going to have to get back on the horse, aren't i...

I can smell the beer from the bottle being held by the man at the front of the bus, from way back here. His dark glasses hiding his no doubt bleary eyes. A woman halfway down the bus calls out questions to him. She is dressed quite well, but her hands are mottled and the dark polish is chipped. They seem to think that no-one else notices how drunk they are at 4 o'clock on a Friday afternoon.


On further inspection, her clothes are a little too trendy, the fabrics too synthetic. 'Paul' and 'Fiona' continue their shouty conversation.
The lady opposite me has makeup tattooed onto her face. The ink of her brows has faded into a blue black.

It is cosy on the upper level of Borders in Brent Cross. This is a place for lingering. A man naps, head flung back on the brown leather sofa, whilst his tiny poncho wearing daughter tears around the entire floor, shrieking, followed by 2 other small folk. He wakes. 'Tabitha! Stop shouting'. She doesn't.

A woman with short ruddy-colored dreads, argues her way around the bookshelves with someone named Gavin. Her phone conversation sounds monumental, an explosion of long built-up tensions, and my breath becomes more shallow with my proximity to her energy. I move away.


Valentine's Day...when the one you want to call, never does, and the others don't either. I'm having one of those bittersweet days. Where everything would be in reach, if only my arms were long enough. At the counter, today, as i walk over to the foundations, i see a magazine, left on the side. I pick it up, and discover that it's a copy of the first issue of Love Pouting, with my interview inside. It was like it was left there, especially for me. A valentine from the angels.
It was better than roses or chocolates, or long-distance phonecalls. It sings of my potential, of my realized dreams.
I have been losing myself lately, in the petty theatrics of a job i can no longer stand, and coming across the mag, was like a hand reaching for mine, pulling me out of it.