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55 minutes to impact

thaas loomoo 112
thaas loomoo 112 by Tim Caynes

there’s a steady stream of them now, appearing from nowhere like the shopkeeper and scurrying up the road to the new bar and grill where the fountain used to be except it didn’t used to be there it used to be where our neighbour’s house is so really they should have called it the doctor’s surgery bar and grill or something which would have be historically much more accurate and would have made for a much more interesting illuminated sign draping over the flint wall onto earlham road. there’s one kitchen over there and one kitchen over here, but they seem to make the things that come in huge trays covered in tinfoil in the kitchen over there and then carry it out the back and 50 yards up the road to the kitchen over here for some reason. maybe they don’t have a huge oven on this side of the road, although it smells like they do when you’re walking back from the city and you hit the corner of the health centre and you get that smoked/grilled/charred/incinerated smell wafting up the road, past the back gardens and open bedroom windows of the next terrace. which is nice.

I sat on a bench outside the nat west and gave up for a while when it was still hot and people were masticating over some gregg’s pastries. they do them in the round here so you can never really see anyone else which is normally a good thing as they’re all inbred and have diabetes apparently so you do have to twist your back around to cop a look at today’s detrius. sometimes there’s some abstract kind of point to all this, but normally it degenerates into a blurred convulsion upon witnessing a family from heartsease who appear to have not seen a pie for weeks or a can of coke and so are gorging like trough-dwellers and dripping body parts onto their guts. take me to the hospital.

I don’t care, now go away.

I can see one on the road and one on the other side, striding into Victoria like a deranged 14th-century pleb. ooh, that insidious tweak of the heels as they dribble up the path and the ratcheting bones of the spike jones lookalike competition winners who are dragged by their feet through the dogs mess in what used to be my adventure playground. there were nice logs. a rope slide and all sorts. but now I voyeuristically survey the half-life mentalisims that drip into view, sloping their club feet into the nearside and dribbling some kind of ridiculous bile at each other, like some mad old apes in the baboon house at banham. and those dogs.

you see, I’ve cultivated a particularly offensive highbrow backlash against you all. I see you crashing the handset against the new email client that nobody uses and staggering across my road like some neaderthal. you’re headed into the pickwick for one last argument with dave about picking up stuff for the morning job and then you’ll be off to costessey for a slap, you idiot. by the way, that shirt is rubbish. they went out in the 90s with those horrible loafers you’re wearing

apropos of which, I’m still alive. I did take a couple of days off to just stare at the tv, so I’m late again with the globalization program. but you know, there’s some things I really have to get done, and some things that I’ll just about get done, so excuse me for a minute, and stop spoiling my view, you cretin

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