And so the heavens opened. Suddenly. On the sudden, the calm day began to pour. There was whining in the streets, if cats could fly they did. A dog stuck his nose in my shopping. And the old gent had just missed the P13.
So when would the next one arrive?
The flashing neon hailed all arrivals for the next half hour. The blessed 39, the sainted 185; the 176, stalwart knight taking pilgrims all the way to the Elephant and the Castle and beyond. The 40 as well. Twice. But not the next P13.
Wait--I had seen a mention flash by a few eye flicks ago. And then-- disappeared. Gone the way of the wicked into the chasm.
Again, and again, and again, no sign.
Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow creeps up its petty pacing. My skin crawls in the sour wind. We sit, imagining the funeral party for the P13, which must have met its end somewhere in Penge.
Having just had a courier fail to arrive after waiting for 6 hours, with false phone numbers displayed on my receipt and on their webpage; having just had a pay machine keep spitting out the 5p which would balance my bill; I was not surprised, no, not surprised to be the witness of the disappearance of the P13.
And then, suddenly, it arrived.
From whence?
And why?
One is happy to be home, but the 'why' hovers deep in my pillow slip as I try to sleep.
Why why why
c. Z Soboslay 2015.
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