Are those thermal pants?
It’s cold out now. 12.30am and anyone will feel the cold. But there’s much to report from Upper Tooting Road. For a start Curry Express is applying for some kind of license. Terrific. What license? I’m not sure. Who cares? Good luck to them.
Like I said it’s cold. Girls are first to go for hats and scarves. Wrapped warm after a night out. Men on the other hand play the waiting game. It’s a battle of endurance for us before we capitulate to this open sign of feeling the chill, that other men will surely see. Not for me I should add. I’m going for hat and scarf immediately. No stinging fingers for me. Gloves too. Must find them.
The doors of the shops are closed now, rather than left open to entice the late night and normally drunk clientele of London’s night time world. All except the fast food outlets, which try against all odds to expel the stench of cooked meat from the premises in exchange for cold and having to wear your coat to work.
The same Toyota taxi did the same five point U-turn unnecessarily by the bus stop. I walked passed the secret Tooting house to the bus stop on Tooting Bec Road. 11 minutes for a bus. A stop for iced tea from the shop opposite. This is one of my favourite roads and the faces are friendly. The same people waiting for a bus, the same things going on depending on the time. Like people coming out of the tube or zigzagging their way home with a bag of chips.
I first came to this road on a wild diversion in a taxi one night back in March. I didn’t know then that I’d get this familiar with it. But on that night it was £30 extra quid well spent.
9 minutes. A cigarette, the happy kind, with the Ipod blasting Joni Mitchell and a team of fellow passengers waiting against the cold, watching their breath as we each admitted that mild daylight was no match for night time that’s fucking freezing. The bus came. Before you know it Tooting has turned to Streatham. A quick, cold, but chipper reminder that it’s time to get out.
Like I said it’s cold. Girls are first to go for hats and scarves. Wrapped warm after a night out. Men on the other hand play the waiting game. It’s a battle of endurance for us before we capitulate to this open sign of feeling the chill, that other men will surely see. Not for me I should add. I’m going for hat and scarf immediately. No stinging fingers for me. Gloves too. Must find them.
The doors of the shops are closed now, rather than left open to entice the late night and normally drunk clientele of London’s night time world. All except the fast food outlets, which try against all odds to expel the stench of cooked meat from the premises in exchange for cold and having to wear your coat to work.
The same Toyota taxi did the same five point U-turn unnecessarily by the bus stop. I walked passed the secret Tooting house to the bus stop on Tooting Bec Road. 11 minutes for a bus. A stop for iced tea from the shop opposite. This is one of my favourite roads and the faces are friendly. The same people waiting for a bus, the same things going on depending on the time. Like people coming out of the tube or zigzagging their way home with a bag of chips.
I first came to this road on a wild diversion in a taxi one night back in March. I didn’t know then that I’d get this familiar with it. But on that night it was £30 extra quid well spent.
9 minutes. A cigarette, the happy kind, with the Ipod blasting Joni Mitchell and a team of fellow passengers waiting against the cold, watching their breath as we each admitted that mild daylight was no match for night time that’s fucking freezing. The bus came. Before you know it Tooting has turned to Streatham. A quick, cold, but chipper reminder that it’s time to get out.
posted by Stephen | 1:08 AM
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