tales from an ordinary world

2002-06-08

"i've got that sunday feeling
twenty-four hours too soon."
golden rough.

A warm breakfast on a cold, windy street corner. The country music shop the other side of the railway line's having a closing down sale - I could never really find much to buy in there, but I always found its presence comforting, despite it seeming so out of place in this part of town with its confederate flag painted on the wall.

Walking between the ABC building and the railway line, I see somebody's thrown a fridge down next to the tracks, on the other side, amongst a pile of plastic milk crates and other urban detritus. On my side, it's all just autumn leaves along the dirt pathway, occasional piles of old bread for the birds, and colourful (but still seemingly lifeless) graffiti on the brick wall.

Further along my little route I see blocks of flats with names, one even called "harrods" (in decaying, once-shiny letters), as if trying to connote a sense of style that seems dreadfully absent from such an ordinary dark brown brick building. Then there's the light yellow block of flats, a bit later, that seems to be slowly giving in to decay.

Approaching the Balaclava shops from the south, on foot, puts a new twist on an old familiar place, at least while I'm walking up the side street. It all fits in with my great wish to walk down every street in this city, one by one. There's something new on every street corner, if you pay attention.