Street Sadness

Overheard a young man in the pub this afternoon: "Yeah, he wanted to come and make conversation but he had dreadfully bloody knuckles and a really wired look about him so I politely declined."

     In the evening I sat in The Doghouse and settled with my large glass of merlot, glad to be out of the icy February wind. At the next table was a burly, bearded, crew-cutted guy in his mid-forties with dyed black hair. I recognised him from his Grindr profile, wherein he advertised himself half-misleadingly as: ’35 year old. Bear. Give good hugs. Mainly bottom but vers with right guy.’       With him was an attractive Colombian man in his mid-twenties. He looked very morose. I listened in to their conversation.      “You see, Carlos, the thing is that she doesn’t deserve you. You were completely faithful to her in all the years you were together. And what did she do? Threw it all in your face.     “I know, but it is so hard to face fact that she no want me no more. I try hard to forget her other men but very hard to forget this thing.”      “Well, as I told you, you are welcome to st...

    I had my morning coffee in a small cafe near my flat. At a nearby table five women sat. They were some sort of ministers for some kind of church. They were planning their itinerary for the coming fortnight. The very fat one was wearing a vicar's white collar; the rest were in normal clothing. Every so often the fat one erupted with a maniacal, too-loud laugh at her own comments. It was the oft-heard laugh of the hysteric; if she realised just how this orgasm-substitute of a laugh clearly indicated her sexual repression she would never laugh in public again. They chatted on about this parish, and that diocese, and various persons "in desperate need of ministry" until I fairly wanted to spit at them. I looked at their smug, self-righteous faces and their brows, all furrowed in self-aggrandising concern, and I felt nauseated. My coffee finished, I rose to leave and as I past their table I growled, "Pigs!" Their fluting conversation abruptly stopped as I made my...

    This afternoon I walked past a local church in which a Pentecostal funeral was about to take place. The congregation was mainly Afro-Caribbean. They stood about on the pavement in their brilliant finery: the women in diamanté-studded stiletto shoes and feathers and furs; the men in ties and waistcoats and broad-brimmed hats. Around the corner a big black hearse awaited, cascading with yellow and white flowers. Further down the street the hearse driver propped himself up against the wall outside of a pub, pint in hand, waiting for the service to end so he could tipsily deliver the deceased to their final destination, under the London clay.     I ducked into the pub to check my emails on the free Wi-fi. As I sat there, several waves of Jamaican women came in from the funeral party, requesting the use of the pub's toilet. They were directed up the rickety staircase to the Ladies'.     After a little while, a spotless white Rolls Royce pulled off the road...