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Day 6
Carrier bag, check, towel, check, smokeability, check, check, che….wait a minute, that packet of skins looks nearly depleted, bad news, I have a feeling I might be needing quite a few of them before the day gets much older. Right, nothing for it but to pay a visit to the rudest newsagent in the uncivilised world, the unfriendly face of sheets'n'sweets, our neighbourhood doom monger. There's still the strangest feeling in the air though, a sort of highly charged anticipatory pulse echoing through the atmosphere bringing with it a sense of great events yet to be unleashed on the unwitting population. Calm down, get a grip, whatever's happening doesn’t seem to be affecting me, or is it ?, no ,I don’t think so but how would I know? Down on street level now and the faces rushing past me look as blank as ever but today there's something different about them. You don't normally get a good look at people on the street for one very good reason, they've got their heads down just like you have, but not now, now everything's changed yet everything's stayed the same, everyone's still dashing about on their day-to-day missions, not taking any notice of the world around them, not even acknowledging that they’re one among billions, but suddenly their heads are up, suddenly they look like their moving with a purpose, and even scarier, it's a common porpoise.
Even the paper
shop looks different somehow, I know what it is, the
double glass doors are open. Usually they're firmly closed and it's
dark inside in a highly successful attempt to ensure that no-one goes
in and bothers the staff with pitiful attempts to purchase goods. Today
it's wide open, the lights are on and there's a steady stream of punters
flowing in one side and out the other. Weird.
So, all I have to do to get in is to join the inward stream of news seeking
humanity. Sounds easy, looks easy, but my first attempt falls well short.
I can’t get near the door past the flow of bodies, they’re all walking in step leaving just enough space
between them for the action of their limbs. Maybe I’m going about this
the wrong way, all I need to do is to get in step. align
my movements with the cogs of the people-machine. Right, a couple of
deep
A single image with a towering caption covers the front page.
I’m stunned,
more than just a bit taken aback, I mean shocked to the core cos
my chest’s turned to ice and electricity spikes up my shoulders and through
the tips of my ears. That image, it’s just too obvious surely, this must
be some attempt at crossing journalism with comedy.
“You look like someone shaved an ewok and kicked it through TopShop”
“Wha.Er.Mm,
er, sorry are you talking to me”. I can hardly
get my mouth to form the words. Partly from the suddenness of having
to spring into verbal action but mainly from the fact that no-one’s spoken
to me or even appeared to comprehend my existence for days. Until now. The winner of Mr Miserable Sod
The front
door swings shut as the last of the chain of interconnected automata exits
leaving just a faint rush of air pressure in their wake. There’s a red
LED clock built into the stylish Embassy fag rack, it reads
Without really focusing, I pick up a copy of the Daily Archetype and wander unsteadily out of the shop. I’m heading towards the rainbow halo formed by the morning sun striking the aluminium door frame and the image strikes the front of my cortex. It hurts. Opposing speculations tumble over each other creating an eddy in My consciousness. The miniature whirlpool stabilises for a brief instant before collapsing in on itself creating a single, coherent pattern. A thought. Thanks Dana. It’s not a pretty picture. The invading force of alien imperialists are using an image created on earth over 60 years ago. Before anyone had sent anything more substantial than radio interference beyond the confines of the Terran atmosphere. So, the only logical conclusion, Captain, is that the galactic interlopers have successfully probed the shared imagery of the planetary population. They are simply reflecting our own perceptions back at us. We see what we expect to see. Brilliant. Unless of course they do happen to look like that, in which case my theory is well and truly stuffed.
Crossing the
road, I carefully negotiate both the organic and mechanised traffic, and
I’m struck by yet another
Bugger…… forgot the skins.
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