Tuesday, May 02, 2006


Now that I focus on my sacred charge of ballons, I see that they are held togeher with a dirt rooten stick covered with cheap brown paper and masking tape. There is one sliht gash in the paper. The balloon seller pushes the stick to me. I accept the stick. It seems more warm than I expected. Hotter tha you might expect even than that held by a sweaty old man. I realise the stick the ballons shuffle to the roof. I gaze around the dark room. Two fat men in grey suits watch me. They are wearing shades, even in the gloom of the early afternoon in a central city pub. They say nothing, but seem to be drinking orange juice. The ballon seller reaches the toiler door. He looks around with a furtive look and goes into the gents. The fat men with shades look at him as he enters the toilet door.

I take another swig of beer. The ballons hover above me, becoming more active. A women and a man walk into the bar. The women is dressed in a smart grey skirt and white shirt. She is wearing cool black sun glasses even in the gloom of the pub. The man stares intently at his mobile phone. His sun glasss are perched on hus hair. Strange crowd I think. The new woman who has come in goesto the bar. The man with the phone gracefully walks to the toilet. The balloons jostel as he approaches, so much so gthat I decide to hold the stick that holds them. As the man in the suit is about enter the door to the toilet he suddenly looks to his woman friend at the bar. She nods. He enters the door.