My last city, my home city, is not really much of city. A stop-over. A gateway to the rest of the world. All heat and wind and prosaic buildings spread over four blocks which someone once labelled ‘city’. Somehow the label stuck. It might have been a city. Once. A long time ago. But it has not been able to keep up with its neighbours. We get out of there as quickly as we can. Often we have no choice. It closes before the sun goes down.
Tag Archives: creative nonfiction
Short thoughts from a messy notebook: One
The new girl in the office said she didn’t eat carbs.
But I saw her eating chocolate and stealing staplers. It made me wonder about her moral compass. But then, who knows which way that thing is meant to point?
When I have two choices, north or south, I always end up going the wrong way. Heading In The Wrong Direction.
This must be south, I think, but it never is.
You’d think I’d get it by now …