If you get really close to the yellow lines painted in the gutter you can see the reflective flecks in the paint that make it light up at night. It never ceases to amaze me the way that the human mind can fill even the most abject moments with trivia as an attempt at distracting from the greater horror. Because I was face down in the gutter on Greek Street, in the pool of bright light from the headlights of Keiron’s Jag, with some nameless thug in his employ standing on my back when I registered the above fact about the yellow lines.
You may ask, quite rightly, what I had done to end up in this ignominious position? The truth of it is more than slightly fantastic, and while I would happily tell you the whole story I was only one small part of the events that led to this rather uncomfortable and potentially hazardous pass.
You don’t mind if I fill in with heresay and what I’ve been told, you say? Very well then. In order to explain I need to go back two weeks to a members club in Shoreditch called The Tobamorie.
No comments:
Post a Comment