Tuesday, 17 February 2009
I'd finished my shift at Swing Palais and grabbed a fist of salt to throw over the car's frozen windscreen. Outside, the midgets stood juggling beer bottles and puking into a lady's purse. Twenty short, I walked up the hill to the spot and waited for that mister's car. On the back seat the salt slipped out of my hand.
Friday, 13 February 2009
In the back room of Roget's Aquarium, round the back of Marple Ash, I sat wolfing down scratchings from the Black Country. One of them popped against the roof of my mouth and wet fat salted my tongue on its route out and down my chin. A passerby tipped his hat and said, 'My, that's quite some face on yours.' All in all, it was a moment to be savoured in this johnny-come-lately existence.