Cold cobbles

The contrast was stark, harsh and sheer. It was not a subtle time of year. 

Rising early in the dead of the dark winter morning he prepared himself - to oust his weary bones from the warmth - and into the rough, and unforgiving winter air.

Everything was done at a compromise now. 

He stirred slowly, trying to wake gradually, rolling lightly and staring around the room. It was no use. Can't avoid disturbing someone somewhere as usual. 

In the darkness he placed his feet on the ground. 

Delicate and slight movements. 

It would be a while before the light of day break would seep into the window. Better not wake the Russian. 

He wasn't snoring now, but had kept many guests in the room tossing and turning on many nights. The burly Russian was a hearty man, with a large chest reliably capable of maintaining a sound of raucous proportions. 

There was no time to dwell on it. 

He had long accepted his inevitable routine. He didn't question it now, not any more. Fighting it just made it worse, especially at this time of year. 

He stretched upward and gather his things. Clutching his clothes he headed to shower. Everything was cold, the floor, the sink, the buckle of his belt as it touched his skin. It all prepared him for what was to come. 

The hot water of the shower felt like a life giving ether as it poured over and down his body. Maybe just stand here all day. 

Before too much steam could mist them mirror he shaved and glanced at the clock on the wall. Time and his conscience, what else was there. 

The wind whistled to him as he slung on his long overcoat and pulled it close around him. It told of the dark and bitter day that was about to begin, to warn as well as welcome him. It reminded him to carry his comb in his inside pocket. Going to be blown this way and that today. 

The Russian rolled and grunted. 

Gathering his wrapped lunch and placing it under his arm he braced himself and headed for the door. The days were long now, stretching from the dead of the early morning to the dead of the early evening. Nothing really lived now, it just got by until spring. 

Wonder if the Russian will come out of hibernation any time soon, gotta eat some time! 

He opened the doors and shivered as the cold hit him, it slapped him in the face and clutched itself around him. It held him and peeled through him and his clothes as if competing with live giving shower. 

It was a familiar feeling to him now. 

Not as bad as yesterday. Time for tea. His mind fixed on tea and the stall on the way to the station. As long as he got there after 7 but not much later he'd be the first there and the first away. Gotta make sure to beat the other crazies. 

The wind from the sea swept him along. 

He could still see the lights of the pier and the promenade stretching away, the lonely yellow lights ever present as his breath appeared before him in the air, and the frozen ground crunched under the weight of his frozen toes. 

The anticipation of tea warmed him as he walked. Tea tea tea. He held its image in his mind as his tense body and chattering teeth moved through the old city streets one by one glancing only down at the cold cobble stones. 

Cat Poo Watching

She moaned and moaned - and wriggled this way and that.

She couldn't stand it - even though it was only for a few minutes.

The poor cat hated to be alone, on the other side, separated from her master.

As the old man pooed on one side of the door, the cat cried from the other, prancing in the landing.

It wasn't the smell that bothered her, as she looked in earnest at the thin wood door pacing to and fro.
But for some reason known only to her she wanted to always share the bathroom while her owner emptied his bowels.

Leaning over the downstairs banister and looking up to the landing, peering up, he laughed to himself as he witnessed the scene. What does he do wipe his bum with it!

The cat loved him, that much was true. She, or Charlie as he called her,  kept him company now he was often alone.

He had a weak bladder, and Charlie knew. He liked to think the cat was looking out for him. He always let her in, he didn't have the heart to let her cry incessantly.

She hopped about on her white paws expectantly. Each drop of faeces into the toilet bowl causing increasing consternation until finally the door handle would creak and in she shuffled.

Uh! Urrrgh! He could sometimes hear his sighs of relief as he emptied out what every filth he'd put through his body the day before. He's going to pop his bladder one day.

His daily stop by the house was a common routine, he knew he was the only visitor most days and Charlie was the only company he had. His family had long since disappeared and now he was left to his own decrepit state.

She gave him something worth living for. Something to feed and fuss over, to feed and stroke. To see when he stuttered into the kitchen in the mornings, when he got back from the shops, and to sit on his lap when he coughed and spluttered while engrossed in an old war film.

She's more devoted to him than his wife was. He probably wouldn't have disagreed. Charlie had lost all his family too. Perhaps the cat needs him too.

She certainly got spoilt, tuna in her dish one day, some chicken the next. I've never seen the cat poo like him though. He thought about that for a minute, then continued to hoover the living room - it wasn't good for his back, but at least he was able.

Trundling bus

The bus arrived.
Not bad for a Sunday, pretty much on time.

It was almost empty and he had his pick of the seats. His only gripe was the price of his ticket.
He'd inadvertently sacrificed money for time.
You have to get a return on this one, he was told by the driver.
Money and time, seemed to be at the route of our very existence he decided.

He looked at everything with romance today.

Everything seemed romantic, nostalgic, and reminicisable to him.
He couldn't and perhaps wouldn't shake it.
He liked living ignis fatuus, though who knew what consequences that might bring.

The trees on the hills across the valley - what stories could they tell?
How he imagined the comings and going they'd seen, the times long before roads and people filled the land, when animals roamed freely and hunters and gatherers survived in the surroundings.

Those trees on the valley must have some stories to tell. What history had they seen?

He thought to of the river, criss-crossing under the train line and the roads, there for so long, for eternities. It's current ran strong, and bashed over rocks, trees lined its side as it appeared and disappeared from view.



It seemed to him almost severed from the life of the streets and of people.



How travellers and villagers must have toiled up and down that river in times gone by.

Everything seemed lost to the past now. The old Victorian houses dominated his eyes. How much change had they seen. Some were in ruin. Some next to inferior modern homes. Rows and rows of these old houses, lined in straight quaint terraces passed before his eyes. Some were painted cheerily and many he could tell must have had a nice back garden view.

To have his mind filled with such thoughts and ideas on that Sunday bus ride was gratifying to him. The bus flew along the narrow roads, taking sharp turns and tight corners.
He read a little, but the brilliant blue sky and the hills distracted him until he gave up.

How clean it felt, no open mines now.

Old men got on and off the bus, some with walking sticks, some with coughs, some with small limps. They are not quite as old as the houses, but almost. They looked like they had had hard lives, but their voices at least hid it.

Wonder what they have been through.

Ruined homes, ruined people. That thought was a little harsh he concluded. Most home and most people are just fine.

The bus trundled on.

It gave way to others, and some gave way to it. The motion of the accommodating drivers seemed so natural and orderly, never a hint of annoyance. The pulling in and pulling out, the flashing of lights, the raised fingers of thanks, and the nods of acknowledgement were all so rhythmic and flowing.  

Past a local school it turned, the modern main building set back from the street and front yard.
A war memorial a hundred years old, with a grand clock face, stood on the corner reminding all who passed of the local men lost to a bigger cause.

Interesting that that memorial is right next to the school.

He wouldn't be long at his destination. There was little time to idle, get in, get out, that was it.

That pub was nice yesterday.
Couldn't understand some of the things that bloke said though.
He was friendly enough mind, nice to chat about the football during the game.
He seemed to know his stuff.
It was a bit surprising how quiet it was.
They'll be no problem going back though.

He got off and walked through the park. The main road was busy, but it didn't matter.

The sun was shining, and winter seemed far away. 

Put the kettle on

Grotesque.

That was the word he just couldn't rinse from his mind walking past the old disused museum.

But he wasn't thinking of the museum at that moment.

That was not the target of his ire.

It had been awkward, forced, strained, all these things.
Any calamitous woeful negative expression he could think of he attached to events of the afternoon.

A slow motion car crash.
A personality orgy.
A tepid, acidic, angst ridden drama.

The streets were quiet, and the lamps along them lit the way home through the dark.
He walked off the main road, past the back of the police station, the air was cool and the breeze light.

A nice night to walk. If only every night were like this. His mind alluded to the winter to come.

He passed a closed school and then a glowing pub, he felt its warmth seep through the windows and out into the dark street.

Saturday lunch time would be a good time to go in. The football would be on then.

Past the terraced houses he walked, their strong stone facades protecting their inhabitants.
The walk had become so familiar to him so soon.
He passed a chip shop opening for the evening. No customers inside yet.

The convenience store came into view, he realised he'd not been in there for years.
Wonder if the same man is running it. He'd no mind to go all the way to the supermarket.

He dived in.
The bright lights hit him.
It all appeared new.
He bought his entertainment for the evening.
And carried the two bottles home.

Another day had slid past.

He turned on the light and closed the door.
He wasn't interested in talking now. He'd heard enough. Now was quiet time.
Time for quietness in his head as much as from his mouth.

People talk so much, but have very little to say sometimes.

He thought about the grotesqueness of his afternoon, the waiting, the wondering, the awkwardness of it all. If they call they call. If they don't they don't.

His ire subsided as he pottered about the house, his general disdain however would take longer to to decline.

He put the kettle on.

Soggy Leaves

He ran across the mosaic.

The patchwork mish-mash of faded browns reds and yellows.
It was like a carpet under him.
Nothing was crisp or crunchy now, this was the back end of autumn.
All was squelchy and sodden, it all reminded him of something.

Yes. These leaves, these flattened autumn leaves were like soggy cornflakes.
Cornflakes soaked in their milk, their crunchiness gone but edible all the same.
He supposed his feet were like spoons.

The ground lay covered where ever he ran.
Along the canal.
Around the school sports field.
On the other side of the train line
And along the path by the pond.

The scenery was still so vivid to him.
The trees were still not bare.
A breeze here and there sprinkled the air with new flakes that wafted down to the floor.

How dull a concrete life would be.
How much he preferred this jotunheim.

The leaves, the air, the leaves. All gave him energy.
Dogs could be dodged, bridges could be ducked, and puddles kicked straight through.

These soggy leaves.
They left him full and satisfied.

These soggy leaves.

Drizzle

Drizzle in the air.

Drivel on the field.

Every few minutes he looked up across the terrace - he fixed is stare - and waited to see if the drops of water were still cascading down.

The game was becoming immaterial now. He just took comfort in being dry, that was all that was left for him in the remaining minutes of the game.

Against the back drop of the stand he could still pick them out, the spitting drops of rain, that were imperceivable against the grey cloudy sky.

4-1. Defeat looming. Disaster.
At least it's not cold. That was to come.

This is a bit of a kick in the teeth.

Celebration erupted in the distance.

At the other end of the field the away fans revelled in victory in the open air, exploding like fireworks as each goal was scored. Meanwhile those around him sank deeper into that reluctant but inevitable conclusion that today was not our day.

Late October and still no home wins.

He felt separated and disconnected in some way. Not just some other teams day today, but he had stood on his own, his own choice, but he had robbed himself of the chance for a communal moan and sweet sharing with those he normally stood with.

Going behind the goal was not his usual way of watching the game, not his usual haunt, but he had wanted another perspective today.

They'll all be there at the next game. They'd seen him a few weeks before, it was no big deal going behind the goal today.

He hand't wanted to be bothered with questions about what he was doing, was he working, where was he working, why wasn't he working. The game was supposed to be an escape from all that.

He didn't have to play up to anyone standing on his own surrounded by strangers.

He'd seen his friends before the game, that was enough company he thought.
To see them after before getting the train would be fine also.

They might not be around after this hammering he thought. They'll soon want to forget this.

The final whistle screeched into the air. Resignation. Defeat.

His minded wondered to thinking of the latest scores, the mood in the bar, and the subsequent train journey home. 

Cwm

He wondered what it had been in the past.

As he sat alone at the table, large cappuccino at hand, he remembered the exterior was old, Victorian, made up of sturdy large stones that had withstood centuries.

Could have been a factory, or warehouse or something.
There was no need for one of them around here any more.

It was a pub now.

Instead of workers coming and going, toiling, it was the unemployed who seemed to frequent the premises. Single mums, retired mums, old men and retired men who sipped their pints alone in the day time hours. Staring off or totally unaware. Men who had seen better days, who had had hard lives and now basked in the calm of the pub.

It's light and airy in here.

It's ceiling was high and the table spread out. A kind of escape for some of these people.

Most of the noise came from the the staff, he was sat relatively close to the bar, and the clatter of knives and forks and plates. It was all intermittent.

The old men could reflect on their past lives, they could lamentingly contemplate past eras they had seen come and go, eras of their lives, of togetherness and comradeship, or innocence and corruption.

All very distant now.

The accent is nice.

He liked hearing the chirpy nature of the staff, the optimism in their voices. The dulcet tones and subtle Welsh inflections. Soft and calming they seemed. There was nothing abrupt or abrasive in the sound. It soothed.

Not such a bad place to retire.

No one bothered the slow munching and sipping.

He wondered about the transition in time.

When did it all change? Was it gradual or sudden?

A comparative youth such as he couldn't understand. He'll have too ask one of the old men, or go to the library. Today a pub, but once a hub of work, of soot covered flat cap wearing miners.

What kind of places are these now?

Idyllic islands, a drift of the tough punishing working world, all but cut off from the urban centres, languishing now in their tree covered hills and rocked streams. A microcosm of a nation perhaps. He wasn't sure, but it seemed a natural conclusion.

A baby's babbling broke his thought.

The Lord is my Light

It seemed like there wasn't time for anything, yet he could do anything with his time.

Letters should be written, books read, emails mailed, forms sent, orders ordered, explanations made, answers given...yet time idled by...drifting like an early morning mist, it's movement imperceptible.

He sat on the train and looked at the English countryside, how soothing it seemed to him. The green trees and hedges, the yellow fields and the blue autumn sky with dashes of white cloud.

This is good therapy.

He felt it invigorate him and he looked forward to reaching his destination. It was nice to travel in the morning with the day ahead of him, ahead of everyone on the train.

When he changed trains for the final short leg of his journey he felt others around brimming with a similar expectation to him.

A lot of tourists here, guess it is a popular place.

Waiting outside the station, there was warm sun, there was a busyness of the main entrance, there was bright yellow stone.

The buses and taxis, the rafts and rows of bicycles chained up and reflecting in the light, the hot dog seller talking to a friend, the leaves of the near by trees - rustling - he tried to sense it all as he waited.

He was glad to wait.


He readied himself for his reunion checking his pocket, tightening his belt, making sure he had the bits and pieces of paper he told himself he needed.

It's been a long time coming, but no doubt we'll both enjoy it, once we relax.

Neither would forget it.

It's good to get away. If there is anywhere that will stimulate the mind it's here.
Plenty to see and think of, and someone to enjoy it with too.

They walked and walked.

He took in all the conversations around him in the street. People are funny, they talk so loudly. He enjoyed hearing the English. Maybe Ted 1 and 2 are worth watching. They're not for kids? Oh!

On the bus two women gabbled as he sat looking out of the window. They were friends, but one talked about deleting another from the internet.

Funny idea of friendship, now we just delete them when we feel like it.

Like the imperceptible mist, 3 days slipped by.
Sites, shops, sun, cafes,
Palaces, parks, supermarkets.
A whirl and a blur.
Smiling.
Hand holding.
Holding.

He found himself back again where he started, dealing again with the same issues. Where did the time go? A peculiar expression when you think about it. Not like it can be brought back from where it went.

Now he had to get back to his books.

Dominus illuminatio mea

On the other side

On the other side now, of the world. Gatwick. Rainy. People. Construction. Buses. Lost.

A drawn out landing and brought his long hauling across the globe to a climatic end. Landing back home held back from his for a few more precious minutes in the sky, like he had a choice to turn back. Like he was being asked if he really wanted to do this.

The rush through the baggage claim and out. Let loose.

In a whirl to the toilet, to Boots, to the North Terminal. He mentally checked off all the things he told himself he would do once he landed.

Lost.

- Where was the bus terminal? What is all this construction? Where is a sign to help me? This woman is taking too long with this man!

He stumbles upon the bus station but has time to burn, and some change too.

Discovering a coffee shop he finds relative peace, but two Italians sit slightly too close for comfort, and construction makes it self known close by. Work mates and business men laugh and banter. His face felt dry and stumble covered. He weary now, not like those around him just beginning their days.

But it was nice to be in the cafe. His drink came in a long tall clear glass, it seemed conspicuous, but he was too weary to let it bother him now.

And the staff. A mixture of English and others. They laughed and got along well. There was energy and life, a jovial atmosphere it seems. It's over priced, who cares, There is construction going on, who cares.

- Oh well!

There were many staff, enough to man a plane. Why not 'woman one' he wondered? They life of the staff was in contrast to the deafness of the Italian. The staff it seemed were just arriving, perhaps the Italians, stuck in their long silences, were departing?

Another long journey awaited. 4 hours on a bus. At the end family duties. A hug.

He was back, that much was true. But that was it. Nothing more certain could be said. He told himself to saviour the calm of the coffee shop. Life here would soon starting sweeping him along.

Nero

He was jaded, Understandably so. He'd been filled with plane food and in and out of sleep for the past 24 hours.

- Mmmm.

He enjoyed tasting the last part of the coffee, the thicker liquid near the bottom of the cup that was a little sweeter than the rest.

He wasn't sure why but he had a feeling of deja vu about the airport.

- It's the first time to pass through Istanbul? Maybe not

It was all a blur.

- How would it feel to be home?

Flying from Urumqi to Istanbul was curious. The mixture of the people on the plane. Chinese, they kind you expect, and Chinese Muslims, there dress and demeanour, and ethnic group all together different from the Han Chinese in the east. Seeing this didn't totally justify his decision to fly home the way he was though.

He was asked to move seats at the start of that flight. A Chinese man rushed over to him not long after he had sat down and gesticulated that he was with his wife and wanted to sit with her.

- Not really much choice. Don't want a grumpy person to sit by during the whole flight.

He wanted to clear his bowels before boarding.

It had been a long hard slog this cafe Nero in Istanbul airport. A slightly impromptu coffee on the way to the next gate for his final flight to the UK conjured up a feeling of anticipation again.

- What a tough night

What a tough flight from Beijing to Urumqi and then Istanbul. Cups dropped on him. Elbows. Requests to switch seats for a separate husband and wife - why? - The faulty seat. The back pain from sleeping on the floor of the airport. Lack of money exchange services in Istanbul airport.

- So many posers in airports. Looking good in their Starbucks. Avoiding the drudgery of laborious airport travel. Show offs

- Do only the rich fly?

He thought about buying Turkish Delight.
He could feel the English closing in.

- Shouldn't have passed through China.

Gatwick would be his 5th airport in 24 hours.

Sheep at the gate

- No new napkins in China! Stupid transfer system.

He supposed he was an expert on such things and readily disapproved of the methods on the communists.

Already he had settled in the departure lounge for the flight to Istanbul. 2 hours early.
A gate with no shops of cafe.

He had survived the rigorous security process.
The silly questioning, the silly poking.

- Evidently not good enough to be allowed near the new terminal.

Airports can give away something of a country's culture, to some extent.
In China they are pretty rough around the edges.
Plenty of stares from the security staff, eyes of suspicion, suspicious minds, or so it seemed.

- Are you done yet?

He could help but wonder how much time was needed to check him over for hidden illegal items.
Over zealous body searcher by the x-ray machine drew out the anti-climax of accessing the rubbish gate.

- Uh! Weary!

He had slept quite well on the flight from Beijing, but it was only short.
The run around in the airport in Beijing had eroded some of the gains though.

Behind him sat a group of aged Australians. They talked about their travels and the number of times their bags were searched. A subject finding common ground among them. He listened.

- It's good listening to old people sometimes.

A woman talked about visiting Spain in the 1970s.

Fasting for a few hours would do him some good.

He was distracted by the conversation of the men behind him. They were older than him, bearded and grey, party of a tour group it seemed. One of the men talked about his trip from the UK to Australia when he was a child.

He travelled by boat when he was 7.

- What an adventure! Not easy to remember much though!

It was quite a journey. Gibralter, Alexandria, the Suez, Bombay, Colombo, Freemantle, Melbourne, Sydney. Views of the harbour bridge. No opera house then. The man wittered on to the woman opposite.

- Suppose they are a tour group.

He wondered how else he would fill his time at the gate. Kindle? toilet? sleep?

- All three?

- Still and hour to go

The woman took over from the man, on and on about her family. Mmm...Mmm were his replies. He acknowledged her. Then a plane arrived at the gate and the conversation ended.

Not enough seats at gate 91. In Beijing.

He peed and moved seats.
There was little comfort now. People had to stand.

- Down to my last napkin.

- 3 flights to go before mine.

- This waiting is reminiscent of Riyadh.

Two women gabbled. Strangers who had got talking opposite him. One was American, blonde, older, experienced. He guessed from California, at least he wanted to imagine that and her accent let him. She's cute. The other was younger, he guess she was an Aussie.

- They were sheep in a pen at the this gate. Surround and enclosed.
- They enjoyed their natter.

- A direct flight might have been better. Oh well. Better for the body but maybe not for the mind.

He knew he would get home eventually, but would still be happy when he sunk into his seat on the next plane.

Napkin Notes

The polished floor and the reflective lights of the terminal floor leapt out at him.

So white.

A hospital sheen...a sterile area.

The small Dunkin Donuts he was in was calm. Despite the Korean hip-hop playing and loud bangs from behind a nearby wall it was a relaxed place to be.

He noticed the music was selflessly promoting the donut shop.
'...Allll day, every day, Dunkin in my lifeeee....'

Dunkin everyday, and we're not talking basketball!

His chair gave him a view out of the wall-less cafe into the distance, across the long white expanse to some elevators. He watched people enter from the building doors on the right and filter from right to left past an information desk and disappear up to the next floor.

Not many people. Still, it's early.

The emptiness reminded him of his apartment he had just left for the last time.
He had left his sea-shell like home, and the functional airport space didn't let him forget it.

A void. Bare. Soulless.

He thought of his now former home, it had been rubbed clean like a shell in the sand battered by the elements, and would soon be buried in dirt again. And buried in his mind.

18 months. Soon that cell will entrap someone else! At least it had sun,

A woman walked by with her head in her phone, her head at 90 degrees. She was heading to the busy departures floor upstairs, already teeming with people.

One day that could be a medical problem that needs treating!

A queue began to form in the cafe he noticed. Queues are everywhere he thought, though some nations do them better than others.

He noticed the smell of freshly bake bread in the air. How high does that rank on the list of good smells he wondered. He own bagel with cream cheese had hit the spot.

Queuing is such a ritual.

Sitting almost directly in his eye-line he noticed a pretty young woman, he couldn't avoid seeing her, he tried to glance and not to stare. A quick glance was enough. There was the briefest of eye contact, enough to know you'd been seen and know you been seen seeing.

The Dunkin Donuts music grew louder it seemed, and ended the moment.

It was probably time to move on, upstairs. His cup was empty, and his belly full,

That's enough Dunkin in my day!

It's my birthday

Huh-huh-huh!

It was huh-huh-huh! --- huh-huh-huh! - like a machine gun.
What a laugh to listen to! Only literally of course.

It took away his concentration, assaulted his tastes, his expectations of public decency. How judgemental, how sensitive.

Bah!

Them ambling coffee shop music returned.
An annoying laugh or the sound of a man spitting? Which was worse?
He supposed the latter, after all that could be witnessed in all its grotesqueness.

Spitting in sports only? Sure, seems reasonable.

Hurruggkk-puh!!!

The throat scrapping mucus chucking of the elder male population was etched in his mind. Like a school bully's punches or a first kiss.

Should be grateful for the laugh!

He finished his white chocolate and wondered how to spend the rest of his day. It was not often he bought chocolate in coffee shops, but today he was a willing victim of, or could it be victor, of impulse. His stomach said victor.

What was so funny? Gosh! Oh well. He was in no hurry anyway.

What is pollution?
Even humans produce waste. Crap. Literally.

Sitting in the corner he realised how much excessive light and noise bothered him, that was all around him here. It had long since lost it's appeal, its wonder.

It's okay from a distance. To hear distant traffic from a hill top isn't so bad, or to see a brightly lit city. He cheered up as he reflected. Soon he'd be far from this madding crowd, this whirl of neon and huh-huh-huh!

The rough and grainy stubble on his chin reminded him he had no plans. Being clean shaven when meeting people was a quirk of his nature. Growing a beard flashed through his mind.

It's possible to cultivate a thick one. A weeks growth might be something.

He knew deep inside he'd be lucky to get that far.

His drifted through the past week.

She didn't like crowds, And they often ended up in the same place. The coffee shop across the park, does the job whenever she bothers. He didn't mind going there with her. It suited her. It was slightly bland and lifeless just like her after all!

He wondered why, with her beauty, she hid away from the world. In the quietest corners, in the calmest of places, it seemed like a bore. Sometimes he wished she would leap out.

Can't be blames in this city though. And what a city!
She lives in a concrete jungle, probably wants to escape.

He habit of pre-booking flights several months in advance -- her way of coping he supposed.

She might die alone one day -- What a bad thought!

It wasn't for him to rescue her though. She'd have to help herself with that.
Better just to fly away.

He drifted further.

It's all devices these days. Everyone on one, from one moment to the next. The people around him all seemed infatuated with something of one kind of another.

Phone. E-book. Tablet.

Even the coffee shops use electronic devices to tell us when our coffee is ready.
We've become incapable.

How did we manage before he thought.
How orderly the hockey puck chips or discs, they kind of look like discs, make our coffee shop visits. Like an early version of a future robot led police force.

Are they necessary?  -- the discs. Did people all stand in tense groups and huddle around the counter waiting for their orders before?  Maybe we were so disorderly.

He considered asking his dad or someone old enough to know.
Perhaps the electronic flashing UFO-like things replaced people.
He was sure why they were so common, but they were.

Cost cutting?!?

This seemed a reasonable conclusion.
It was a conclusion to anything anywhere when there seemed to be less people doing a job now when compared to the past.

Over and out

This is the end. It's the end of an era. So he pondered on this as he sat at his laptop. 18 months of graft are finally over. Finally. Those cicadas are at it again. He kept his window open though, by now in mid-September there was a calmness to their din, so much different from early August. No noisy delivery bikes tonight! But it was gone 1 am.

It was a novelty to be up so late on a week day. Haven't done this in a while! Rising before the sun had become so familiar, and lets not mention the dark winters. He shuddered at the memory. No more of that thank you! 

He looked at the clock and considered going to bed. It would be good to sleep normally. To sleep through until after the rush hour, rather than be at work before it seemed like the greatest gift in the world. Better not get up too late though, the estate agent might call. 

There was nothing left to do now, not tonight, not in Korea. It was over, he was done. To be free is great, but a new challenge will be along soon. He didn't think too far ahead, why worry. New worries will be along in their own good time.  Just enjoy the days you have left. It's over.