NoteBook Of A Girl: Entry 10

There laid upon the cold damp ground, lays the colour of Autumn. With in each leaf is painted its own rich colour. 

Shallow puddles sit still reflecting images of the world around. Like mirrors upon the ground.

A passing cyclist rides fast and steady braking the reflection in the fluid mirror of high rise buildings of flats and offices. modern builds sit next to old.

I stand and watch agains a wall of a church, the world around. people getting frustrated at tourists not sure where they are going. A couple standing at the crossing but not wanting to cross. The driver of the car waving his hand at them the spending off. In their own little world of selfishness.

The Autumn air damp and cold making me feel nostalgic for the warmth of my sofa and blanket and an irish hot chocolate.

Unlocking my phone I read a message.

“I’m going to be late… The tube not running.” 

I exit with out responding and search though my music to find a song to suit the mood…

(eight bars to open)

“The summer sun is fading as the year grows old,

And darker days are drawing near,

The winter winds will be much colder,

Now you're not here.”

A cold wind blows the leafs and plastic bag and sweet rapers that lay upon the floor, around like a small cyclone. 

The cold air brings a chill making me  pull my scarf up closer around my neck trying to keep warm

Distorted refections of the city in the shallow puddles like broken mirrors.

The rich colours of autumn painted on each fallen leaf that laid upon the ground, in pools of water like abstract art behind glass.

“I watch the birds fly south across the autumn sky

And one by one they disappear,

I wish that I was flying with them

Now you're not here.

Like the sun through the trees you came to love me,

Like a leaf on a breeze you blew away…”

Making me wish for bright Autumn days. Dry and sunny, fallen leaves raked in to the piles, all crisp and bright of colour. deceiving empty blue sky’s casting the illusion of summer. As birds fly swift to warmer lands, in an unbroken formation they glide low in the autumn summer sky projecting shadows over the open field. The almost baron trees on its boundary in the distance, hiding the buildings of the town that seams so far away. Their once green vibrant leaves now rich shades of autumns colours. Red, golden orange and browns lie on green grass. Morning dew rests where shadows fall. like diamond powder dust sprinkled over night.

“Through autumn's golden gown we used to kick our way,

You always loved this time of year

Those fallen leaves lie undisturbed now

'Cause you're not here

'Cause you're not here

'Cause you're not here “

Memory’s of  crisp leaves under foot as played and kicked the pile s high creating autumn’s rainbow of  fallen leaves. Wrapped up warm form the cold dry wind. Morning sun warms our smiles as walk.

“Like the sun through the trees you came to love me,

Like a leaf on the breeze you blew away…"

A sudden cold wind, and the sound of the horn from a London bus brings me back to city. Reminding me to to finish my walk along the concert path with its shallow puddles reflecting images of the world around, like mirrors upon the ground. Distorted refections and faded colours like abstract art behind disfigured glass. 

The Autumn air damp and cold making me wish for brighter milder Autumn days. With rich shades of autumns colours. Red, golden orange and browns. Instead of the shades of blues and  greys with faded oranges and neon lights. Reflected in the grey distorted mirrors, like windows to another world.

“A gentle rain falls softly on my weary eyes

As if to hide a lonely tear

My life will be forever autumn,

'Cause you're not here

'Cause you're not here

'Cause you're not here”

Leaving the coffee shop with a hot drink in hand a light rain fills the air. my music fades then stops. Allowing me to hear the world round. 

The setting sun casts gloom over the city. Making me once more feel nostalgic for the warmth of my sofa and blanket. and the hot chocolate that I hold in both hands to warm them would be much sweeter with a dash a brandy. 

People with umbrellas pulled low paying no attention to whom they might be walking in to . in their own little worlds, not moving aside. Pulling my hood up in vain to keep a little dry while on the walk to work.

With shallow puddles that sit still reflecting images of the world around. Like mirrors upon the ground. Distorted refections of the world around.

Turning on to the small back street that leads me to work, the rain grows heavier. watch as cast and crew head in from the cold, while some stand sheltering in the fire exit to finish a cigaret, in the cold damp autumn air, where laid upon the cold damp ground, lays the colour of Autumn. With in each leaf is painted its own colours of autumn. 

Notebook of a girl. Entry #9

Designer suits and Primark shoes, they sit staring down at their one line life within their hands. I sit and wonder where those suits and heading with those people in them?

The endless Rattle of the underground cars echo in my ear, the hot dry air that fills the ground fills my lungs and every breath dose dry my mouth.

The once cold bottle with drops of cold water that sat upon the surface now have gone and the contents now warm leaving my hand now wet, a sip not quite ease the thrust that is with in my throat.

The rhythmic drown of steel on steel and the rush of air fills the air in this tin can  car that is racing miles beneath the grown of London town.

Hundreds of miles of tunnels disused. As we slow and the suddenly stop the current residence of this tin can tut and shuffle in their seats, Those who stand relax their arms form folding on tight and shuffle their feet, an impatient glance at time on smart phones and shiny watch faces.

Sitting still in the illuminated darkness, you have have to wonder which line the vibrating rattling is coming from above or below? in front or behind?

Looking beyond my own reflection in the window behind a girl in her Primark suit and designer shoes and designer bag, engrossed in an e-book on her electronic device.

Hidden in the darkness, lengths of  cable run. Held to the wall with mettle brackets covered in black dirt. A door locked and bolted with a tunnel number painted on it.

My imagination begins to run wild are far from these designer suits and Primark shoes. far gone are the days of top hats and cravats.

Be hind the door and down the tunnel lined with cables and pipes leading you further in, deeper in to the dark leading to a deserted and forgotten station, used last, last century.

Broad sheets on benches and old gas lamps  still hanging, shrouded in dust and silk spun cloths of spider webbing. discoloured posters from the second would war, hand drawn and painted by widows of the war.

A long disused track conjures a phantom wind,  whirling with in. Thought the ground a distant sound of racing trains coming from above or below? in front or behind? Dust the traces of the  present along the trains deserted river bed, plastic bags white and blue ripped and tattered discarded form the world above.

A trace of the urban explorers and homeless, sprayed on the half white and green tiled walls next to a waterfall that runs ceiling to floor moss and mould, the only  things that grow in the this damp endless night of this world below the city above.

foot prints in the dust along the platform around in circles and back again, from one end to the other. 

Paw prints lead to a bricked up door and away again, what sought of beast walks this Labyrinth beneath the streets above.

I don’t think that it is tame. With blood stained fur and a broken fang, claws long and white. sharpened on the tiled walls of a forgotten tunnel. Nesting in a carriage of a Victorian train with its shining deep blue eyes to see in this endless night of blackness. 

This island of light, illuminated by the flicking strip lights of the modern world, that has unknowing forgotten this would that lays beneath their feet.

A sudden sound and a sharp movement breaks me from my day dream, bring me back to the reality with in this tin can that I am  traveling within, beneath the ground with these designer suits and Primark shoes. Primark suits and design shoes. lukewarm water, and discarded papers. Lost in the depths beneath the city, in winding tunnels centres old, and an endless night. mythical beasts, in a unknown would.

A sudden bight light as we pull in to an island and passengers leave and new arrive Primark suits, and tourist bags, knock off hand bags. switched off form the world, in their on line world. as we retreat once more in to the dark and me in to my thoughts and over active imagination.

© sarah jane patel

NoteBook Of A Girl. Entry #8

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. A 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

                                                   

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

NoteBook of a Girl Entry #6

A stuffy airless room with an eternal lingering smell of feet and dust, occasionally lost under the smell of microwaved food and fast food take aways.
Open newspapers spread over the table with mugs of tea sitting on them. The silent companion and  fluid he per of the papers reader attempting the days souduko puzzle. Now left alone while they carry out their chore.
The ten year old TV plays its ground hog day version of the film, with its faded colour and distorted sound with flickering grainy image again for us all.
Maybe the buildings version Ground hog day is envious of the new plasma screen TV that sits below and wants to be played on that?
Sitting on the sofa steering at the TV, zoned out, my feet resting on a box. Not sure whats with in. It might be tap, it bight be bulbs, it might be a million pounds. I don’t know, I signed for it but have not open it, in fear that it might be the printer ink for Satan, the photo copper, and it is. Its evil. Only working when it wants, copying only half a page and when you change the ink you can guarantee you will end up with half of the ink that is left will be all over you. It even has a name sticker on it reading “Hello. My name is Satan” It needs a special touch, thats why I leave it to the admin staff to feed it, its toner ink.
And my feet are comfortably resting upon its lunch.
Being awoken from my day dream abruptly, (like being shaken awake from a deep sleep) by a herd of elephants that are the dancing twirlys of the show go running up the stairs beside the room.
Graceful and delicate upon the stage above the room where I sit. Clumsy and loud behind the scenes where they can not be seen, is the nature of the dancing twirlys of the show. 
Don’t get me wrong they are a lovely bunch, but the stamping feeling of  tap shoes on the metal stairs is not the best treatment for a press night hangover form the night before.
All that free wine was a bad thing, Should have gone home and stayed in. But then I would have missed knowing who kissed who while watching the walk of shame as they entered stage door. Dark glasses and coffee to nurse the pain. No eye contact with the press night fling.
Looking down at my blue cover note pad, with my drawn flower upon its lined page, how productive my last hour has been. Know it is time for move and ascend the stairs and complete my cues.

Now that I am back I am on page number three of writing nonce upon its page, of old TV’s and fairy elephants, upon the stage. A journal of nothing but my distractions.
I watch act one draw to a close on faded colour and flickering pitcher, we wait for the signal as we finish our tea and black coffee’s, that all is ready for us to do a transformation upon the black stage.
Waiting patiently  the dark for the next event to take place. A falling curtain and moving set. this is the dark side of the magic that we take part. The desert becomes Aladdin’s cave, filled with good and treasures, Cinderella’s kitchen full of sadness and broken dreams, disappears in flash of light and smoke and Place you are now within at the ball to meet your prince.
 All dressed in black the silent unmentioned dream makers that you don’t see. 

The smell of fish and chips, freshly made coffee and Chinese fills the room, with its walls of different colours, Shades of white and cream and mix mach of chairs and sofa and arm chair. My box with its mystery contents has been taken, maybe by the admin staff that have descended to the depths of the sub-stage world two floors down, to collect their package.
The TV plays late afternoon Tv while the other shows the  empty stage with cast on coloured mats do yoga before they have their salads, counting calories and watching potions while I sit her eating bugger with cheese and ketchup. No salad here please, we’re british.
One of the guys try’s to send a text walking around holding his it up to the sky hoping that it will connect.
I cant figure out why we do that, walk around holding the phone above your head. its not going to make much difference if your out of range of the aerial. 
Your out of range and all the moving around and holding it in the air and standing on chairs are not going to make a difference especially if your two stories below the ground. 
Two levels closer to the centre of the earth,
Two stories below street level, where it sometimes might seam that this dark Cavan beneath the stage of bright lights, where lover stories and tragedies are told, and where those of us that are forgotten, those who make the magic and placed and forgotten.

Sudden Shirks of laughter and shooed words erupt from the floor above. Curious eyes go out to see. return with smiles and laughter and shaking heads, with tales of ice cold baths and lead cast members being dunked part clothed ing the freezing icy water of the old cast iron bath in the bath room. One of many pranks and jokes that will get pulled, over the weeks to come.

A second family, almost this group has become in such a short time, still a long way to go till closing night drinks and tears. Tempers my fray and moods may change, friendships forged my last longer then just this run. longer then the box of celebrations that sits on the coffee table, less then a quarter left after less then a day here, in this stuffy airless room with an eternal lingering smell of feet and dust, occasionally lost under the smell of microwaved food and fast food take aways.

©sarah jane patel

NoteBook Of A girl. Entry #5

The white light of day, with its cold blue sky and fluffy white clouds stretched to upon the canvas like a posing naked girl.
The traffic of the back streets of the city limited to the those how know them well. The suits, the workers and the lost travellers on a quest with bed directions. The sound of stationery traffic, echo off the ancient brick,  the impatient beeps and shouted words, lost on foreign ears.
Holding tight to a mug of hot strong brown tea. The heated vapour reaching out in to the cold early afternoon air. The radiating warmth making my fingers and palm feel like summer heat.
Standing watching passers by. The odd lost tourist with bags and iPhones trying to re-find themselves.
Wrapped up with a hood pulled up of the over sized black hoodie, looking like a teenage goth or a teenage Emo all in black, standing by the wall with tea and a cigaret in hand as groups of people walk past.
A smile and a nod from one of the guys that work in the same building, yet I could not tell you his name.
The summer came and went so fast, now here I stand outside work freezing my butt off for a fix of nicotine to get me through the next part of the day. A group of five men wonder and stop out side of the door beside me, placing their bags on the floor, and stand and wait with clip board, pen and paper. Hat scarf and gloves. Is really that cold or am I coming down with something?
An old paved road of uneven bricks, with puddles of water, runs down the centre, parting the building with narrow paths, wide enough only for two people to walk side by side.
Unanticipated  when laid how quick and busy this city might become.
An un predicted future of technology and of life that now traffics these streets.
A puddle of oil and water catches my eye, a rainbow below my feet. dose i mean buried treasure lays in waiting below these cobbled lane. Like a  ‘X’ marked on a map of treacherous seas and un mapped islands

A sip from my white mug with a “Don’t Ask, I’m On A Break” hand written with a sharpie and oven baked to make it stay on its side.
I feel the hot tea slide down to my stomach, making me feel warm all the way through. The smell of McDonalds from a brown paper bag of another that I work with enters the back door, with the bag in one hand and a drink in the other and a back pack on his shoulder .
A sudden burst of laughter comes from the door and four of the men that I work with come out and stand around me passing a green lighter around, each lighting their roll up.- for their mid day fix.
The five of us huddle together like a displaced, ill looking group of penguins all in black trying to keep a little warm. Yet I think I am the warmest with my over sized hoodie and them in their T-shirts jeans and work boots.
Work talk quickly turns to past stories and to comic piss takes of others that we work with past and present.
Jumping up and down with strange dancing to keep warm in jest at other as they began to roll in to the buildings back door
A small group ask directions I turn to face the wall as one of the group decides to be a drama queen while giving then directions he convinces them that he is someone and signs their map, as I stand silently laughing to myself and the wall, once a red brick building, but nows black brown, from the waist of the cites traffic.
With finished cigarets and cold hands arms and feet they slowly head back in to the warm leaving me with an almost cold tea and my thoughts. 
A white van beeps his horn at a group of people walking and standing outside the door to work.
The unimpressed face of the driver shaking his head at the rooted crowd lingering in his path. 
It makes me wonder what goes through peoples minds, their like rabbits caught in the head lights of the on coming traffic, on in this case the on coming driver who decides to slowly move forward down the narrow one way brick cobble road, almost like a cattle herder moving a brainless crowd of London visitors on to the paths.
Taking a mouth full of now cold tea, I tip the last bit upon the dark brick road, the cold light colour fluid flows quickly through the stone brick maze and mixes with the oil and water, turing the  rainbow to a watered down brown blue colour. No longer marking the Spot to the buried treasure at the end of a rainbow. 

© sarah jane patel

NoteBook Of A Girl. Entry #4

Starting at the darkness outside the window. the brightness of the rain carriage creating mirrors of darkness out of the glass,  a tired slightly drunk girl looking back at me.
A silent empty carriage no passengers  but my self sitting travelling. 
The beep of the intercom with no message. The sudden slowing as we pull out of the night in to the brightly li station. with the siding doors opening some get off and some get on, girls dressed up in dresses and and half the make up counter of Debenhams on their face, Boys in track sues and to much links. Not enough to to empty and not enough to fill the slow moving train heading back to the city
As we pull out form the station, a place of bright light in this alien place of vast darkness in this wilderness of the country side.
Looking deep into the blackened glass at the pitch black night with its moving silhouettes of trees and bushes and power polls.
The bright white moon moves every so slowly higher through the heavens. The cloudless night, cold and with stars like random diamonds stitched for eternity on the blue black silk of the night sky. If you look close enough, you can even make out the face upon the moon.
Yellow and withe spots of light stretch out of depths of stillness, growing closer making the motorway that soon will tack flight over the train lines and touching ground, twisting and tuning vanishing into the night, visible.
Suddenly from no where an explosion of gold and silver in-lights the the darkness of the sky, slowly falling. The cascading gold disappears in to the night.
Before long the sky begins to become alight with red, and green, gold and silver diamonds. silent explosions of enjoyment colour on this cold November night.
Yet all I can do is sit and gaze at the excitement in the sky.

Wrapped up warm in fingerless gloves, hat, scarf and coat. the smell of burning wood on the chinnery. Burgers on the Bar’B’Q the smell of burnt sulphur from fireworks in the air. 
A  sparkler in each hand writing names in the air.
The feeling within your chest of the exploding colours in the sky.
Another burger, more chips and squash. Another beer and glass of wine for the grow ups.
Childhood memories, remembered in each diamond cascade.

Lights of dazzling white reach high on the silk sky toped with red blinking waning light like a light house in the middle of the city. A warning for the sailing ships of the air.
I look up and down the carriage of what seams to be a ghost train absent of any other passengers. 
Destination somewhere. calling at all stations, including grief, depression, missed opportunities, forbidden love and a bad hair day.
Cannery wharf, for all those who commute and travel to London regularly it is a monument, a sign that they are now in Centre of the country. The home of the Bank on England, the monarchy. A city that all of those that travel far and wide to see think is spectacular For those who live within the boundaries of he London postal codes, is home, its hell, with the rude tourist, and un appreciating rich snobs. 
Pulling in to the station its mixture of old and new architecture, lights ass bright as day. With a deep breathe I step from the train to the platform, an unexpected emptiness for six pm on a week day. I head to the steps to the tunnel beneath the tracks leading to the exit. 
burning torches out front of the hotel a strange warmth feeds down to the pavement. The food van outside the underground still serving. The smell of onions frying drawing in hungry suits, and tourists. A slow moving crowd moves towards the stations to head home. 
for a moment i go with the flow then stop and turn and decide to walk. 
Fields of red, a flowing tide encircles the ancient stone walls of a prison and fort. Lit from above and lit form below the shadows of each of the fallen cast upon the stone. Flashes of light capturing the image to say I was here, that I saw.
A flash in the sky of falling crystal, dancing reflections off glass buildings of black mirror.
Heading in to the ground, the rattling nose of the steel cars and electric buzzing as the underground transport moves to a stop. 
Uncomfortable blue covered seats and discarded free papers and magazines, left for the next user to read. 
I pull from my bag my blue note pad opening it to the next blank page makes with is matching blue ribbon, pen in hand I began to write shakily on the rattling ride home.

© sarah jane patel

Note Book Of A Girl: Entry 3

A field of green, fenced by tall trees and old brick slender own houses. All once were one, now parted to many.

Restful soles sit and lie upon a green rug of dry cut grass. Soaking up the last of the summer rays, of this late Indian summer in late September. Summer dresses with trainers, jeans with flip flops, every one showing off and embracing their own style. 

It has been a long summer hot and sticky.

Restless nights and tiring days and lazy evenings.

Walking the back streets home  on a slow sunday evening. he day light fading to a pink, blue and silver sky above London, silhouetting the roofs, the un used chimes and redundant TV aerials. 

The peaceful roads of a chaotic city A silence, a strangeness.

With the dead powered ipod in pocket. with no song playing n my ear. I realise how quite and peaceful he city can be.

When you say that you live in London, people think of the busy centre, Covent Garden and Oxford street, yet 10 minuets away is the quite suburber of town houses surrounding green squares, coffee shops and news agents and green grocers. 

Its like a world of serenity with would of chaos. 

Where once I world walk the too with head held low watching the pavement, grey and black. marked with gum and stains, and littered with unwanted waist. I find myself looking the buildings. Converted buildings, now with shop fronts. 

With the fading lighting I begin o see the movement of the people who reside within the red brick houses, painted all shades of colour. turning the lights on after a long day.

The slim phasic of a man at a window with a drink in hand.

I wonder if he lives alone, is he single, married, gay or straight.

From the faded features that could be seen, through the white net curtain hanging at the bay window, he looks like the kind that works out the kind you see in trousers and shirt what every the event. I wonder what he might do, manger, a banker, a doctor, a teacher, or may be just a good old shop worker.

I can but imagine.

a

The turning leafs from green, to with yellow tips. to red, to gold, to floor they fall, burnt golden brown decaying upon the ground.

The city squirrel runs along the wall. a leap of faith from all the tree, up it runs to is home. 

Birds fly in formation across the twilight sky. 

Singing birds sing the sun a good night.

The little white flower braking throw the concert. determination and skill, this little thing has.

Shadows of women at windows, laying tables and cooking. what strange layouts each house may have.

l

The sound of the traffic grows louder as the light grows dimer. I turn from the side street onto a main road. Where a que of traffic lines the road. Heading into the heart of the city a stream of red lights moving slowly almost to a stop. It would be quicker o walk. It would be quicker to cycle. rather then sit on this unmoving artery that feeds this city. 

The dull drone of engines the constant scream of beeping horns, screaming over nothing. 

All the things you see when your ears are free to see.

a

© sarah jane patel

NoteBook Of A Girl: Entry II

Tapping fingers on hand rails and thighs. Drumming hands on bags and knees while listening to music on on a silent bus, heads down not making eye contact less you want someone to sit beside you. crazy trying to to make conversation over something or someone you no nothing about.
People get on, people get off. the rapped beeping of the ticket machine and the taping of the driver within his glass box, for a girl to get off. she gives him the finger and a “fuck you” as she jumps of.
waving papers and hands, trying to keep cool. a rattling and rolling bottle across the floor as the bus stops once more. A chatting tourist trying to get directions yet failing and off they get looking even more confused then before they started.

Entranced by the music playing in my ear."This will destroy you". enchant you and chill you. 
Its the music you might listen to on a come down from the night before. of clubbing, partying and drinking.
The queen of the would, indestructible, undefeated girl of the night. Go out with £50 in my pocket, shots and beer, and wine and a cheese burger. Get home to fine £45 left and half a dozen scraps of paper with numbers and emails with random names, yet no face to go with them.
With black jeans, held boots and black top, a denim jacket on the back of the back of the bar stool. The girl on the right dancing on the bar, stone cold sober, yet the first to be though out. Sucks to be me last night. 

Running with hope and a prey  to catch the bus. yet the man fails, out of breath and a silent swear as the big red bus pulled away with out a care.
A running bear footed boy with a towel in hand being chased by another with a camera and a smile, another armed with a bucket for the #IceBucketChallenge. A sudden scream. A sudden laughter. a small smile to myself as another is challenged by the ice clod boy doing the ice bucket challenge.

Past empty shops and green leafed trees. Past tall town houses and forgotten open spaces. over grown with unwanted waist. so much needed in this concert desert. Surrounded buy fences with ‘coming soon new houses’ sitting on high new fences.

More people get on and some get off. uncontrollable children with undisciplined parents. Eyes roll at swearing children, yet nothing said by its uncaring creator.
I watch at the passing locations ever growing closer to my departure.
out of the corner of my eye, watching the chill playing with what seams like a rope, like the kind i remember having to create the cats cradle.
twisting it around her hands then whipping it though the air. A man moves from whence he stood out of the way of the hell cats whip. 
Standing where the wheel chairs and buggies commute. She climbs and  swings on the handrail above, then lets go and swings on the cats cradles rope, as the big red bus slows and stops.
I pass the girl, and jump off.

As I do, I suddenly think.
A sudden slip and a sudden scream as the swing rope tightens around the unruly child’s throat. A screaming mother being held by strangers while another try’s to help the child. A hysterical crowd screaming trying to help. The driver on his phone sounding the alarm. Calling for help. A passenger on his phone recording the sad event. Another shouts at him, a push and hit, racist words and hateful eyes of all those still upon the bus. Walkers stop and view the sad commotion  of the feb bus sitting at the bus stop, stoping the traffic, bring London to a stand still.
All made up in a split second. An over active mind with a messed up imagination.

What stories and tails could these London red buses could tell.
stores of hate. Stores of love, sex and lust. Stores of racism  and death of innocence, if only they could speck. Know that would be a note book to read.

Leaving the bus and walking away, with my bag and music playing in my ear. To the pub for another night out on my week off. To enjoy another brandy, to ingest another rum. Sampling the taste from farad wide. To intoxicate my head. Body and spirit. to fead myself with music and lyrics. To slip in to a euphoric dream of though and dance.

© sarah patel

Note Book Of A Girl

A half filled glass of bandy sat on the white top coffee table the condensation drops run down the out side of the cut glass, creating a puddle on the table surface. The only light, lighting the dimly lit room  was from the stifling suns rays burning through the closed curtains of the apartments  first floor windows. They snuck thought the a small space at the top of the rail curtains stubbornly  would not meet. The slow moving cigarette smoke could be seen moving in The light beam that shot from in between the curtains lighting up the photos on the opposite wall. A collage of black and white images and the odd colour photo or postcard, half covering a once white wall, now stained  a yellowish brown from cigarette smoke.
Laying on the sofa wearing just a short black summer dress, I blow smoke in to the air, fro the newly lit cigarette, watching it dance in the light. Not  even the tarnished chrome fan on its highest setting seams to be making no difference to this hot hummed sticky air, apart form adding a drown walling noises, as it cuts though the air.  

It is July in London, England. It is every man for himself as the city fights for a small piece of grass in  any park, beer garden a space a canals, anywhere that means that they are outside.
The tubes, hot  sticky places with a constant smell of BO and piss. One cleaver person that decides to spray  themselves with a body spay, choking everyone one the carriage. The flickering lights in the darkness as the trains rush through the tunnels below the city.
No wonder Neil Gaiman called it London below in his never where series.
Its almost a city down there, buskers playing guitars, saxophones and keyboards, echo through the stations tunnels and walk ways to suddenly to be drowned out by the rattling thunder of metal, as a train rushes in to the station. Small keos’s  selling over priced sandwiches on their date and  bottled drinks.
Pushy, sweaty, impatient, business men. All of witch best avoided on a day like to day.

I push myself up and sit on the sofa, very un-lady-like with my legs parted, trying to keep cool, and my thighs from sticking together from my own sweet. Not really caring as I am here alone. Sitting the half smoked cigarette on the side of a heavy glass  ash try, something that you might have expected to find in a pub back in the 70s or 80s, before smoking was deemed a taboo activate and an anti social pleasure. 
The smoke rises up then is caught by the vacuum of the fan and is broken up and pushed around the room.
I look to the blue note pad sitting next to the watered down bandy and coke. All the miniature ice burgs almost gone, now just small ice chips floating in a vast ocean of a brown reddish liquid.
The pages marked by a blue ribbon and the pen still inside, pushing the book slightly open. The open ring binder with its dog eared pages with tea stained rings and hand written notes amongst the print on the pages. Reminding me that there are things to be done. Yet each time I sit down with good intentions of working, something distracts me. The washing, the cleaning of nothing, music, tv, friends or the internet.
The World Wide Web. The anti social, social networks. face book, twitter, tumblr, myspace, tinder, link in, stage 32, and so on. All created to connect us, yet it drives us apart. The idea of communicating with some face to face or even just over the phone becomes a challenge, with people not quite able to communicate or social interact with a living person.
Its not long be for the distraction becomes the wok, distracting you from a conversation on twitter or face book. From watching other peoples misfortunes on You Tube. And before I realise it I’ve got plains for the next 3 days, leaving me with no time to finish what I need to.
Pulling head phones out of my ears I am greeted with the booming bass from a car passing down on the street below, reminding me of life outside my first floor apartment, which I have not left in since my return home late on Saturday night from work, and it is now Monday afternoon.

I look at the time on the phone sitting on the back of the sofa. 4:30 pm. An hour since I decided to lay down and try and keep cool, and about 20 minuets since I decided to pour myself a brandy. Its my week off. To hell with it I’m aloud too.
Picking up the wet slippery glass, and tacking a sip. Drips of cold water, drip off and down the front of my dress, slightly refreshing.
Pulling a face at the taste of the coloured water. Picking up a pencil and using it as a cocktail mixer. Mixing the heavy alcohol that had sunk to the bottom of the glass, below the full fat coke and melted ice, followed by the chime of the pencil on the side of the cut glass. On the second taste it tasted better, rather then a watered down cocktail.
Reaching for the note pad and placing the glass back down on its coaster of water, I remove the pen and begin flicking through the pages, faster and faster, their movement creating a breeze, moving the warm air around my face. Stopping at the front of the book and beginning to turn each individual page looking at its content.
Where to begin. Where to begin.
Stopping a few pages in I take the pen and mark the page once more.
Picking up my lap top from the floor beside the sofa, hitting the enter key to wake it back up.
It re awakes on the half completed document which I was working on over an hour ago.
File. Save.
File. New.
I listen again to the booming distorted echo of the cars sound system passing once more, so loud. I see the movement in the drink and for a moment I wondered if it is the music making it dance.
I place my fingers on the key board and begin to type another distraction…
“A half filled glass of bandy sat on the white top coffee table….”

© sarah patel