Walking through the carpark at my local town centre is not unlike one of those playstation games where you have to investigate in and around a dilapitated old building: Dimly lit ramps leading up from the pot-holed walkway, light bulbs nearing the end of their lives, flickering and buzzing from within their age-yellowed glass fixtures.
I've been up there enough times now for it not to depress me, intimidate me, or for that matter move me at all.
A bleach haired young harridan pushes her pram and splutters self-importantly about curtains or nappies or football to her clearly under-the-false-nailed-thumb companion. He looks like a shell of a man as he shuffles along just behnd her, grunting appreciatively in all the right places and carrying heavy Tesco bags with rounded shoulders. He can probably no longer hear her banshee-like wail as she yells out to her unruly toddler; she no longer takes his glazed look as a sign of disinterest. More likely submission.
I take in their presence with a quick sideways glance, roll my eyes and sigh loudly (as I do, being a miserable cow) and make my way quickly back out into the daylight.
I've been up there enough times now for it not to depress me, intimidate me, or for that matter move me at all.
A bleach haired young harridan pushes her pram and splutters self-importantly about curtains or nappies or football to her clearly under-the-false-nailed-thumb companion. He looks like a shell of a man as he shuffles along just behnd her, grunting appreciatively in all the right places and carrying heavy Tesco bags with rounded shoulders. He can probably no longer hear her banshee-like wail as she yells out to her unruly toddler; she no longer takes his glazed look as a sign of disinterest. More likely submission.
I take in their presence with a quick sideways glance, roll my eyes and sigh loudly (as I do, being a miserable cow) and make my way quickly back out into the daylight.
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