Snapshot 2
*Yo b!luv da feelin of bein on da bus.ther sum dude singin sumfin.'Da english gyal cant cook.u no she wan2but she no sha cant cook..whoa whoa!':-D*
Yes I say the grammar is appalling! However, it is the want of the shorthand. SMS, 'they' call it. A young man (younger than Marvin but by only the coupled years) with a false fisherman's hat stood up after pressing the green button directly under the word 'send' on his mobile telephone. He then pressed the red button with the word 'stop' written on it as he got up and alighted, passing the Black man in the vest and West Indian accent singing the referenced piece.
Off the 'Big Red' onto the light grey pavement; the masses moving in multi-colour; White-pink boys/suede Mixed Race girls/starch White old ladies/almost pastille Vietnamese women/rich earth brown Black middle age men/slash/slash/slash. Like bees to the hive of honey transport.
Around the bus shelter this texter skipped feeling his right hand's bones and skin tingle. One of the five senses he possessed spoke to him, informing his mind that an object was vibrating within his grasp.
*Yeh I luv londn.so many crazy peeps blessin us wiv ther voices on da bus&stuff:-).my sis says that it's a Jaheim trak,ryt?Duno.Wot is it?Da guy sounds like a joka!;-) xx*
Ha! The fisherman thought. 'Jaheim? What deluded world does her sister live in?' Still, he walked home thoroughly background in a wide grin upon his land loving features.
Marvin (approx.)
The built up brick housing to slick whitewashed Jehovah. And moments over: a girl school, built opposite a tidy summed supermarket of capitalist rule. Adjacent; stations, hailing two presentations with one national rail carriage (though not the right term now; how crude!) the other, what's commonly known as the 'Tube'. And over to mini cabs, aki and salt fish slabs; accommodation to the students of New Cross populous. Goldsmith — designed by education to un-ghetto; i.e. 'stop-you-less'.
Marvin alighted the bus, bathed cold air and released thought. What if the gas was on? Mother would pass away in her sleep. She should have years... months... weeks... days ago. Too many. She heroically has stayed beyond her natural life. A heroin — the mother is a heroin. To Marvin, however, heroin was mother.
A vision of her trashed (for want of a more pompous word) face superimposed upon a blonde student's face as she passed our Marvin. He envisioned her selling her soul for a packet of Golden Virginia and some Rizla. Though he had been taller than her for some time, he was only ever looking up at her face when he thought of her — as if from the perspective of a small boy.
"Hey." Said the blonde student. "How are you?"
Marvin staggered a reproach. She may have been a punter or perhaps a one night stand. Worst still, she may have been a girl he fucked for the sake of weed sale. 'I'll have a quarter, ciggies, rizz and you role it whilst you can have my breasts, thighs, bottom and vagina. Oh and while you're deep inside my coouch, why not search for the fragments of my life force which are, in sum and not parts, still owed to the devil. He lives across in the opposite dormitory, you know?'
Judgement was the girl; luckily, she was the very former.
"Coffee?" To which the witch replied no. Her excuse included the search for clothes as compensation for bruises that occurred upon her petit frame several years previous; when winds blew down Clifton Rise rather than how it does now (up).
Alone it is then, dear Marvin. The Rising Sun coffee bar known formerly as Moonbow Jakes (or that place with the CD shop in the basement).
