The Old Bell

Sunday afternoon in the Old Bell, Kilburn High Road, London

A man walks in with a see-through carrier bag and a pint of Australian lager, sold in bulk to keep the masses happy with its refreshingly low price, 
He's got a pint of milk, 4 oranges and a two litre bottle of cheap cider to hide away his misery when he returns to the solitude of his poorly furnished flat. 

He turns the pages of today's news, trying to find interest in things he doesn't understand, he doesn't want to understand. 
His life is slowly fading away with every page he turns, this makes him happy, he's tired, he's not afraid, he wants to see what's on the back page. 

Someone told him to be careful once. 
Someone told him that he'd  better wake up, better make a move, seize the moment. 
He didn't listen. 

He wanted to sit here on a Sunday afternoon, surrounded by the other lost souls, the escapees, the wounded, the lonely, the unloved. 

There's a smell of vinegar, from the stale chips that get served up with every plate of low cut meat, and the sound of Sky Sports gently giving everyone a reason to be here, to be staring into space. 

His thoughts wonder back to his childhood, when he could run in the fields, he used to run, just run, as fast as he could with no limits, no signs, no sounds. 
Only the wind in his hair and the dust on his feet. 
He was happy then. 

The old men cheer through the grin of their beers as United score another golden goal. 
He isn't interested and turns another page. Is it possible to be numb from the head down, but still feel every pinch of pain as if it had happened today? 
Today is yesterday's tomorrow after all and tomorrow is long gone. 

The clock strikes another beat, he puts his cap on, turns and leaves, 
An empty bottle of cider is left crushed in the corner. 

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London, February 2014