Flabby kids with fat ankles waddle past Sainsbury’s in flourescent plastic slippers, pulled by muscular Staffies panting against thick leather chest-collars. On the bus, more kids, teenage girls, braided hair, stripey collars turned up. Attitude. Catch their eye and they wanna fuckin’ belt you. Everyone else just stares out. Stares through the number 38 window, bored, depressed, dreary. Or talk talk talk. A hen weekend. ‘Oh no, she doesn’t like L-plates, and she definitely doesn’t want a veil. That’s why I thought we should buy lots of champagne. Yeah? Good. Ok. So see you in St Tropez.’ But never talk to anyone else on the bus. There is an aggression. Closed. If you look, they look away, or look like they’ll thump you. Pulpy skin. Thick ankles. No eye contact. Phones. What do we have to do to talk to each other? Dogs sit on chairs and old people lean on sticks, girls slag off their fackin’ mum. London. London. A woman around the corner, on the Pembury Estate, killed her kids. She was 29, they were three and ten. I used to tell my landlady in Luanda things like that and she didn’t believe me. London? No, can’t be like that. It’s good over there. Is it? Much more likely to have my mobile nicked here than there. And kids get really fat.
One good thing though: Blair is going.