Thursday, 17 June 2010
A London street
The tarmac beneath my boots is polka dotted with discarded chewing gum; it sticks to my shoes as a last attempt to be remembered. Flowers are pinned up morbidly outside the petrol station in memory of that child, one of many, whose common death didn’t make the news. Bullets lie in the gutters as still as the poor soul they shot, children here have toy prams but some contain real babies. Crowds bustle, all the people hurrying fast, really fast and no one ever smiles. Homeless folk give a mournful eye, one minute they have it all, then nothing. The latest gossip spreads from person to person like a tsunami about to hit. The smell of supermarket perfume wafts through the thick air. Babies wail, phones ring, feet stamp, buskers sing. Then a shot, a scream, a thud, an echoe. Just a day in the life of this chilling place. Today was the day.