Sunday.

 

 

 

There was but a fog of cranial proportions that was ever so slightly quashed by the sun creeping through the recesses of the curtains.

   The air had been cold for a week and a day and now the air was warm like the first day of spring, which appears to be a very long way away.

   There used to be an unofficial tradition of a Sunday, one which required a number of things to make it so. The first being a supplement of the paper variety; the second a large café tier of black coffee with a side plate of five doughnuts; the third and almost most important, were jazz records, though this spans back a long time before and was almost certainly not part of the contemporary Sunday.

     On this day though, none of those things were upheld, not to say that it was incessantly carried out with a religious zeal, it was just a preferred way to spend the day. The sun was warm as the sea air whipped up and whirled around, kites flying high and men holding onto hats. A hairless dog shivered and looked pathetically up at its owner.
   People ran off their lunch in tight lycra. There were dog walkers, shit talkers and the kind of family who rarely speak to each other – Fat girls on skates and bald men in slacks. Couples holding hands, ice cream stands and badly behaved children.

   A vessel dipped off the shore, carried by the strong winds, perhaps in the direction it intended, perhaps not, but it carried on just the same.

   The streets were emptying of bodies and imaginary shutters were being slammed shut in a rather dramatic fashion, Charlie Mingus aggressively attacking the fret board with fanatical enthusiasm and a mild degree of hatred for something or other.

   The sounds came smooth over the record player and so it went.

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