Bleach

Saturday April 22

Long time no sea.

Picture a fishbone.

You get it.

They bleach the streets in the morning.

People’s feet are sprayed.

Homeless people are covered head to toe as they sleep and sit in shop doorways.

Chemicals land on skin.

Chemicals are breathed in.

Drunk and drugged people cough.

The streets are sterile.

And so are people’s lungs.

Stripped.

Raw.

A smell of Pear Drops everywhere.

I pull my bandana up over my nose and mouth to avoid inhaling.

The night was good. Then bad. Then good. Then bad again.

I made over a hundred.

But I needed at least £150.

200 would have been even better.

But it is the end of the month.

No money weekend.

So I should be content at making over a ton.

It was a struggle though.

But my swift talking on the street got four guys into a strip club.

They had a good time. I got good money for the ride up there. Everyone is happy.

Tired.

Need sleep.

Planned to work Sunday.

But that seems doubtful now.

Maybe Monday then.

People kick pigeons.

Vermin they say.

I say, people are vermin.

Crippled, diseased, doomed.

My kind of town.

The night bus home.

I meet a couple of the Brazilian riders on the top deck.

We share beer and bitch about England. They are going home in a few weeks and want to travel around the nice areas of Britain.

I say, go to Scotland and Cornwall.

It is daylight now, as they leave the bus.

But it is dull. And a soft rain is falling. Seagulls swoop on the bus.

I smell.

My feet smell.

And I have no clean clothes.

Life is good.

I like my life now.

Simple and basic.

No worries.

The only worry is not worrying enough.

But I don’t worry about that either.

Just stretch and shower.

A hot shower.

Better than wanking.

Better than sex.

Better than a £50 bottle of Champagne.