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Returning

Out on Lewisham High Street, a grubby man passes me and grins, gold teeth winking.

'Inchoo lovely!' He says, as he wanders off.

On the way back an old guy with a can of Tennants smiles at me. 'Tired,eh?' He says, soft pleasant voice.

Everyone seems so poor, dirty, old. But their faces aren't leering or creepy. They're OK really, ordinary.

Sunny cold morning, wet May.

Normal may not be round the corner. But it's not far away either.

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Comments

( 9 comments — Leave a comment )
november_girl
May. 17th, 2012 08:18 pm (UTC)
I'm so glad to hear you're making progress.
x
smokingboot
May. 18th, 2012 06:55 am (UTC)
Me too, it just seems to be taking forever! X
november_girl
May. 18th, 2012 07:07 am (UTC)
Better be slow and thorough than make a botch job, methinks. Also, I appreciate it feels like forever, but given what you've been through I think it's fantastic that you're beginning to make progress so quickly.
Xx
sixtine
May. 17th, 2012 09:04 pm (UTC)
It's great that wasn't scary. Inchoo gettin' there.
smokingboot
May. 18th, 2012 06:56 am (UTC)
I ended up attending my first ever Zumba class. Now that was scary!
caffeine_fairy
May. 18th, 2012 07:18 am (UTC)
Did you do the Obscene Macarena? I love that one.

And glad to hear that things are gradually becoming normal.
smokingboot
May. 18th, 2012 03:55 pm (UTC)
Alas no! Though there was a lot of thrusting...
bytepilot
May. 22nd, 2012 04:51 pm (UTC)
"Normal" ?
Oh for the love of all the gods, the blue of the sky, the white horses of the wavetops, and if I'm honest for my own selfish desires.

Please, please don't drift into "normal"

For to be the Boot is to be the wildebeast in the shrubbery. The exquisite, albeit tiny, cut glass decanter discovered at the back of a dusty drawer containing newspaper clippings from the Telegraph. The sharp fresh cut strawberry scent of tomorrow's summer parties.

Normal serves its purpose, but it doesn't wear well when one's freckles show a map of the stars.
smokingboot
May. 23rd, 2012 04:22 pm (UTC)
It's true! Tomorrow does smell of strawberries, except for those days that smell of elderberries, but we seldom draw this distinction unless we are arguing with the French. Again.

Don't worry master poet, the freckles, the stars and the wildebeast remain unchanged; that's normal for us.
( 9 comments — Leave a comment )

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