Sunday, 7 February 2016

NoteBook Of A Girl. Entry VIII

Suits and plain clothed office workers, like worker ants follow the rote that they know best, from bus to tube, tube to bus, bus to main line train, tube to main lines.
heading home on a friday night,  some heading out to central London to become apart of the crowed on the throw-up-fridays last train out of town. crooked ties and listed ties, panda eyes and messed up hair staggering out into the surrounding suburbs of quite.
Amongst The crowds, tourists rome, confused and dazed  unsure what way to go is best. pointing and staring up at the surrounding buildings. 
A controlled chaos at Victoria station through the bus station and train station this friday late afternoon. with a fast setting winter sun and cloud silver grey sky’s above.
People all dressed up for a night of entertainment at the theatre a trip to Yorkshire or a trip to Oz, I wonder which shale it be,
As I stand at the bus station waiting to leave with work back and change of cloths. Moving traffic, dead still, as people unaware walk out in to the street without a care.
work men on here break stand outside the the work sight entrance with a cup of coffee form Costa coffee and a roll up cigarette admiring and laughing at the walking dead. The girls with high healed stilettos shoes, short skirts and low cut tops. looking at down at their phones taking selfies, unsteady in their high healed stilettos shoes.
Standing at a bus stop waiting. With my bag with work tools and blacks and over night bag. 
I stand and observe the  friday night move in. With a bugger I wait for a big red London bus, to tack me north, home ward bound. Creating story’s in my head for those I see in this controlled chaos at Victoria station through the bus station and train station this friday late afternoon.

The young woman that is dressed to impress, short skirt and designer  shoes,  at first sight you might think, that she is out for fun to find a man, she  has a rep for being easy, a bit city bike you might say. 
But what if I was to say that Sunday morning with out fail you will find her in church. placing bibles on each seat, treating each of the conjuration with a smile and good manners. Helping in the Sunday school, cooking meals for the homeless, there for each choir practice. and church meeting.. But week nights are hers, to drink and dance with who she choses and how she wishes She is saving her self for that one special man. In modern world that her parents do approve of, nor those how belong to the same flock, If they did do out think that they would pray for to give up the lifestyle she lives?

The guy with his Tailored  suit and brief case, shiny shoes and designer coat. The guy with the good looks charm the high flying career, he has it all. the looks the charm the job the trophy wife.
On returning home he is faced with darkness and hate, A wife with a short temper and untrusting thoughts, how hits him and calls him names, cheats and lies and is caring another mans child in her belly. He sees know why out, to ashamed to admit he needs help.

Some of the made up lives I have thought up standing at Victoria station of the people I see walking  to and from the bus station and train station this friday late afternoon.

On  an empty bus I do sit. top deck front seat, feet reading on my work bag, pen and note book in hand. fast setting sun over London town, a shift change at the servants entrance at Buckingham place  High stone walls lined with razor wire a fortress are these walls protecting  but one family. 
At Hyde Park corner the bus becomes more full, loud lively chatter filling this big red London bus. Tourists heading out to see the local night life. City workers heading out to live it up in there city they work for. residence heading home and residence heading to work. 
The hard rock cafe with its awnings brown  and yellow and its que out side, passing restaurant and coffee shops, hotels and The Ritz All the places I can but dream of staying the night with in.
The lights at Piccadilly Circus lights seam brighter in the low light of dusk that is shrouding this city the clouds of grey and slier have faded in to gold and pink hang above the buildings like something in a film at the end of the would. How but me has noticed the beauty above our heads? Are all they looking down and  viewing life through film on their phones.
Past Ripley’s Believe It on Not! past Japan Centre, Past the Lyric theatre where plays Thriller. The Apollo, The Gielud,The French revolution at The Queens eight times a week. China Town all dressed up for the year of the Monkey to begin.

The 30 something women that sits down decide me head down eyes fixated on the screen of her phone. Long skirt and high buttoned up shirt and long coat, immaculate, hair in a bun and perfect skin with no make up,  A Liberian prim and proper at first glance you may believe. Yet at home she's the mistress stocking and suspenders blindfolds and handcuffs.

Another made up life that I created on the bus ride home this late friday afternoon.

©sarah jane patel