reunion, recycling
Here is the grin alluded to earlier. Jeremy calls this picture “Claire, wary of a competitor”.
Had an odd morning. Woke from a nightmare where Grant, Kirsty, Jeremy, Claire and I had ended up in a giant youth hostel in a shopping mall, all chrome and strip-lighting. One of the youths, a fat, spotty boy, was a serial killer. His big thing was cutting out peoples’ spines, the way you butterfly a chicken. I dragged Jeremy out to the taxi stand to get away, but we spent months and months in waiting in line for a taxi, during which time the serial killer developed a crush on me, lost weight and kept coming around with flowers and chocolate.
I was woken by the sound of garbage bins being bashed together, which is normal on a Thursday, but the sound went on and on.
“I think our garbagemen want to be drummers,” I said to Jeremy.
“It can’t be bins. It must be a construction project,” he claimed, and padded over to the window.
“Oh,” he said, “you’re right. There are hundreds of bins out there.”
“Hundreds?”
“Hundreds.”
Recycling has come to Alabama Street.
Here you can see one of the garbagemen playing a bin like a drum.
