30.09.2002 | 10:25 a.m.
step outside...

Today, out in town, people walk hand in hand; people walk estranged. The sun makes sporadic appearances to chase away jackets. The stench of perspiration fills the air, whirling across spans of laughter and mundanity. Metal chairs shelter pools of stale rain water and pedantic conversations. A fifteen year old girl stands outside Tesco with her boyfriend. Thick layers of mascara and hair gel barely veil the naivete prevalent in her deep brown eyes. Her boyfriend is holding her - just below her tight tank top, just above her low rise jeans - and caressing her calculated shard of nakedness. They stop a man walking past them, talk to him for a few minutes. The girl lightly touches his long, deep green coat and looks at him pleadingly. He shakes his head, smiling, and walks away. The young couple look defeated, but before long, are creating conversation with another twenty-something man. White t-shirt, light blue jeans, denim jacket, skinny. He disappears into Tesco; the kids disappear into the alley parallel. He comes out with a bottle of Smirnoff, hands it to them. They hand him the money and giggle. He nods and walks away, with his hands in his coat pockets.

Across the street from them is Topshop. "We are open on Sundays!" - A bright red poster adorns the shop window, stealing attention from the poster on the other side of a beautiful model. Young girls move like vultures all around the store looking for prey. Music blasts from speakers and every single person is mouthing the words and shaking their hips,albeit imperceptibly. Colours approach from every direction - more convincing than an Encyclopaedia salesman - begging to be embodied. A girl clutches a shirt to her breasts, her fist crushing the collar. She looks into the mirror, tilting her head to the right, and chewing the same end of her lip. She asks her friend for her opinion. The friend sorts through the hangers and picks out the same shirt in a bigger size and hands it to her. She shrugs and puts both shirts away, now stained with the contagious entrails of low self-esteem.

Beside me, an old man is talking under his breath to himself. He smells of urine and tobacco and stale beer. He adjusts his hat and abruptly walks towards the Hill. "Don't Talk (Put Your Head On My Shoulder)" plays in my earphones and I close my eyes to bask in the melody. The world vanishes deliriously into musical perfection. I am glad to be out and about by myself again.

deja vu? | jamais vu?