Strolling along Victoria Road one morning, whistling a tune, kicking a stone, looking for fun and feeling groovy.
Behold, a young fellow sitting at a table outside a grocery store strumming a guitar, bringing chords to the masses, us shivering rat-infested hordes. It’s like that round my house anyway.
I see his socks, odd socks, one yellow, one red. My feet almost cross the road towards him but they don’t, they keep walking instead.
Mind your own business, why get annoyed, just a daft kid, what harm is he doing?
But I feel something rising inside. You know, like that infinite wasteland of pain and disease, unbearable torment and uncontrollable fear? It’s like that round my house anyway.
What if he’s only here because it’s cheap and what if it’s only cheap because we’re poor?
I start thinking about imperialism, cultural imperialism, people coming to our shores to enlighten us with their better ways.
How will our children look back on us and what if our grandparents could see us now?
I think of my own clothes. Terry towelling socks, three for a pound, gents sports socks.
Then I remember out of date men shouting at clouds.
So I keep walking, stay calm, clear your mind, that’s it.
Must watch Apocalypse Now when I get home.
Been thinking about it for ages.