Choice

Early, I shuffle into the soul- less bus-stop gathering, and am held upright and inanimate by buggies, walking sticks and re-usable bags made fat with High Street consumables, as I make my choice – Number 48 or Number 548? Twenty minutes or forty? Costa coffee won’t wait for a 48. Hudson’s rosé can make it…

Refuel

Cumin, chilli, coriander, turmeric – combined, create turmoil in my head … Confused, dizzy and disorientated, I resist further intoxication, hold my breath, ignore the rumbling pleas from the labyrinth within and stumble onwards to Head Street to the 754, that waits patiently for today’s meal, an undernourished battery hen, past its best, unable to…

High Street Millionaire

Wrap me in; keep the gap closed. This is my space, on the pavement, in the High Street, by the window. My space. Pirate flag. Plastic cutlass. Open book. Marking my page, and my space … next to and part of McDonald’s. A multi-millionaire. A McDonald’s man, with a little bit of pavement – to…