Tuesday, January 03, 2006

Western Sky 

“These days are so long,” said Terry to nobody in particular. “They don’t last this long when you’re on holiday, do they?”
Mike glanced at his watch and sloped off for his 3:30 wank.

Stella, my eighties style yuppie witch of a team leader, had spent the morning in Ikea with a fair haired young Feng Shui consultant called Gruyere, buying bookshelves for all the self help manuals she’d received for Christmas. He had a large toolbox and only a rudimentary grasp of the English language when he stepped into her office at lunchtime, and they were banging away at the wall hammer and tongues all afternoon.

Outside my window the western sky changed from blue to red, then to a much deeper blue and finally velveteen black. Away in the distance, beyond the power station and the electricity pylons, traffic backed up along the dual carriageway in lines of red and white, pretty as a string of Christmas lights and a new moon swung into view, crescent shaped, a hook to hang your hat on, a big daft smile to guide you home. The Northern Star flickered like a pocket torch. Constantly in the darkness? Where’s that at? If you want me I’ll be in the bar.

Stella bought me a coffee and some kind of cake thing from the machine after she’d walked Gruyere back to his van. She grinned and said “That boy is an absolute star.”
I helped her with her books - Stand On Your Own Two Fucking Feet And Manage; It's Not You, It's Them - and said to her that the world gives off none of it’s own light.

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