Walking Down the St.

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A WOMAN, HALF leather, half low slung jeans does the cigarette shuffle, slowing briefly to light up before a puff of smoke appears above her dyed hair.

Loud talking in a serious tone approaches, louder with each pavement devouring brogue, every call a matter of utmost importance, unless of course it’s a family member. Cologne so expensive it smells cheap drowns all, emanating from his now already distant clean cut suit.

A young guy sporting his first facial fuzz and a lopsided cap leans cockily on a bus shelter peering expectantly up the road, drawing heavy on a rollie. He hasn’t watched a James Dean film but subconsciously he’s trying. A scrap of paper falls from his pocket as he finishes the dig for change. Is he picking it up when the street’s covered in litter anyway?

Two teenage girls walk side by side talking intently about the situation in Gaza; dissapointingly, through unintentional earwigging it becomes apparent it’s actually ‘Prada’. Primark bags dangle from their slender arms I guess they’re keeping a sweatshop worker in a job. One set of arm is fake tanned despite the summer heatwave. The way the sun strikes the arse of one of them, you can see the misaligned thong through the nylon leggings. It’s a barely forgivable misjudgement of the elasticity of fabric.

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