Thursday, 9 July 2015

NoteBook Of A Girl. Entry #7

Standing and waiting, for what seams like hours, o collect a fix to to get me through the day, or maybe even the week. “Coffee with an extra shot please” As I wait my turn for it to be made, or grown the speed its happening this monday morning. It could be flying in fresh from Brazil. 
The chatty laughter of a group of girls at a table with more energy then the whole queue put together. Sat at two tables now pulled together discussing boys, clubs and how much money has given them this month. bitching about friends that are not with them in the coffee shop, with endless energy or maybe just hyped up on coffee.
After what seams like hours I’m handed my paper cup with plastic top full of the most legal drug that there is. Coffee.
Standing out outside  the shop, one handedly pulling the right strap of my back pack on to my shoulder. The first warm sip on spring day. The biter, sweet taste, making my taste buds tingle and my brain sigh with the relief the taste  and knowledge that this will pick me up. Another sip before heading off down the back streets for an early mid dad start on a fine spring day. Blue sky’s with no clouds making it almost seam like mid summer.
Lying sky’s making us think that it is warmer then it is. Making those girls wear summer dress, making them regret it an hour after leaving their warm homes.
Early rising tourists heading out to sight see. suits on their break grabbing their next caffein fix. Shop workers hurrying, trying not to be late, smartly dressed with trainers and a bag for he gym after their shift and before monday night drinks.

The uneven  road beneath my feet of the brick cobble stones, making me slightly stager making me feel like I am a little drunk. But all I am doing is avoiding tripping on the uneven brick cobble road and missing the dog shit.
Theatre land, the Westend. Dog shit? We are in the middle of theatre land, I can tell you the last time I saw a dog, but you can guarantee first thing in the morning their it is. Waiting to be found.
Reminds me of the time  we found a human poo, sitting in the door way of the stage door, everyone daring each other to clear it up. one of the guys  deciding that pocking it with a stick was a good idea. treating it like one of the road kill pigeons that we see along the uneven brick cobble road.

As I get closer to the door of the theatres back stage trades mans entrance, out steps one of the cast, lighting his cigaret and taking a deep breath.
My heart almost feels as though it stops with the thought and memories of the Saturday night before last drinks at the White Hart, followed by a lock in. Flirting, charing dancing, drink after drink followed by shorts of flaming Sambuca. Dizzy head and coordination lost. Stepping out in to the early morning cool air, waking me up and making me feel a little more drunk but a little more clear headed, with wondering hands and hungry lips. We called a cap and headed to bed.
Track suit bottoms and long sleeve white top, he stands looking at his phone, reading messages or emails or the paper. I wonder. Reaching the door there are smiles and hellos as we great each other on a mid day  monday morning, trying to act normal so no one suspects a walk of shame this Monday morn’. 
With greetings saids we depart on the stair. I watch him head up to his dressing room. I cant help but steer and think back two nights, of wondering hands and hungry lips.
Heading down two stories to beneath he stage where waiting are some of the crew crew room brewed coffee and tea. dressed in blue jeans and white t-shirts, how different we all look when we are not in black.
Already hot in our own little hell beneath the heavenly stage of magic.
With another coffee drunk and hand full of chocolate toped biscuits we head up to the surface.
standing in the wings waiting for them to begin. 
Dimmed low light casting long shadows of moving figures. Laughter and spoken words as they began.

Standing in the shadows watching every move, losing to each word waiting for my que to nove set and props. The sudden soft gently touch of hand placed on my waist, just as the director calls out to those moving and speaking on stage. We part ways as he walks in o the light, casting low shadows  of frozen cast, patiently listing to their directions, I watch him walk in to the low lit light I cant help but steer and think back two nights, of wondering hands and hungry lips.

© Sarah Jane Patel

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