The cruel mistress of morning presents all kinds of undue irony delivered straight from your handbag. A cigarette, yes! You fucking genius. But alas, no lighter. A vending machine, by the side of the road?! But , no change to buy water. A taxi with its light on! But it doesn’t stop. And to be fair it’s understandable, you look like a sequinned serial killer right now – or a really shit hooker. You ask the dude in the plaid shirt who walks past for a lighter. “I don’t smoke,” he scoffs, like you’ve just told him you’re going to slow roast his first born and eat it with hot sauce. Fuck him anyway, he obviously listens to Coldplay. But me oh my, a hug in a bed listening to Parachutes would be better than this hell right now. Oh woe is me, so lonely and cold. And why did that last cap suddenly decide to kick in?
Like a mirage of sunshine, you suddenly see it streaking towards you. You stick out your hand and close your eyes and wait to get splashed by the puddles as the cab zooms past. But what is this voodoo? You hear the brakes grinding to a halt and the sound of a window winding down. ‘Where to love?’ asks the cabby, with a smile more comforting than the reefer in the bath you’re going to chong as soon as you get home. In you jump to a pine freshened oasis of comfort, ‘Lady’ by Mojo on the radio as the sun peeks through the clouds, winking at your bad self.
In reality, there are no cabs, or train stations for miles. Looks from passers by range from concern to pity. Mothers shield the eyes of small children walking past you. As you take a little breather on a bench, a nice lady chucks two dollars into your open handbag. When you finally find a train station the Sunday service leaves you shivering and homeless for another forty minutes, a ravefugee marooned on the platform dreaming of the nightbus to nowhere.
Read the full article at Pulse.