Skip to main content

Ski hats and milk floats

Another evening walk seen through my eyes...

Through a gap in the trees the last of the days light silhouettes grandiose gravestones. To the left the water tower silhouetted providing the juxtaposition between sustaining life and the ones now past.

Freshly painted yellow lines contrast heavily against the worn road surface. Minutes later a motorbike pulls up roaring like a lion half asleep followed closely behind by a moped with a barely audible putting sound. It feels like a lesson for pre-schoolers; New vs old, noisy vs quiet.

A traditional wooden sash window is closed shut providing the most satisfying noise especially when compared to the thunk of a modern PVc window.

A man riding a bike on the cycle path has to duck last minute when he realises he's either going to be eating a mouthful of foliage or more likely the tree is about to eat him.

A motorbike's back lights have two horizontal red lights and a white light beneath curled down at each side. The smaller it gets in view the more it resembles an angry sad face.

A low black car with classic go faster stripes looking like it was plucked from the late 80s / early 90s guns its way around a corner like an unwelcome uncle at Christmas dinner. The sound isn't marrying to the speed of the car as it goes past either, like you're watching the motoring equivalent of a badly dubbed Kung Fu movie made in the same period.

A flatbed truck drives past laden with cartons of milk with none of the nostalgia of a traditional milk float. I have a sudden yearning to hear the clinking of milk bottles from my childhood and the slow whirring noise of the electric motor as the float would drive away. I never saw anyone stealing from a milk float despite it being in hindsight really easy pickings. We came from different times.

An old man walks up the hill repeating something over and over like a mantra but it's unclear what he's actually saying to himself.

22:27 and a man is sat on a bus with a ski hat and sunglasses on. Maybe he's trying to manifest his dream holiday into a reality or maybe he's blind and isn't aware he looks a twat.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

What's your poison of choice?

He sat and watched intently as the woman on the table opposite sat stirring a spoon slowly round and round the mug in front of her absent mindedly. Even the clinking of metal on the porcelain couldn't stir her back to reality from whatever land her thoughts had whisked her off to. Her gaze on a fixed point somewhere behind him but whilst physically present, clearly she was deep in thought. Usually he'd have made a point to ask her to stop because the noise grated on him but for some reason with her it felt mean for him to do so. Besides in truth it wasn't doing him any physical harm and it gave him the perfect chance to study her face without her being any the wiser. He let out the briefest of smiles to himself as the thought flashed across his mind that he truly is as fickle as the next man. One rule for one, another rule entirely when it comes to pretty women.  Finally on some level her senses must have alerted her to the clinking sound and she looked down at the mug in s...

P is for pretentious and C is for...

Charles Callaghan sat down in his drawing room to partake in his daily ostentatious breakfast consisting only of two black cups of Grand Moka Matari Coffee made by Bacha Coffee served in a Hermés Cheval D’Orient coffee cup and saucer, completed with a print edition of the Financial Times. No one was exactly sure the precise point in time he'd slipped into being an utter cunt, but associates surmised it was probably around the summer of 2003. It hadn't been a laborious process on his part, he found it was a naturally occurring talent, some might even go as far as to suggest it was a God given one. Whichever it was, once Charles had discovered his niche he saw no reason to deviate from his position. If Charles’ behaviour was to the chagrin of his wife Penelope then she didn't demonstrate it outwardly at least. This may have had something to do with her weekly trysts with her horse riding instructor whereby the only thing being ridden was Penelope somewhere into next week much...

Pink candy floss kisses

From the ongoing series of observations from evening walks... Pink clouds hang statically across the horizon like candy floss kisses. A man checks his teeth in the mirror of a transit van, styles it out by saying hello to me and vanishes quickly inside his house. A man on a racing bike descends quickly down a hill living out his Tour de France dreams in his head with every pedal stroke. Another man cycles past with a red dome skid lid on and a yellow bag which says something about 20 litres of water. All he's missing is a coil of rope around his shoulder and he could join mountain rescue. Oh and a mountain of course in one of the flattest regions in all of England. A rather large man with receding hair pushed back into a pony tail slowly shuffles past. If he was yellow he'd look like the character from the Simpsons. I make a mental note to try and remember which one. It's the same mental note I make every time I see the guy and never remember to do it. On the other side of ...