A Bristol Novella

I'm watching muted re-runs of a British chat shows on DAVE or More4 or some channel like that. The images the only light cast over the room, the smell of summer rain lifting from the pavements outside. The breeze, blown through the sash window, damp.

And from the Bose dock on the sideboard CocoRosie's Lemonade is playing, and it's by far the best track on the otherwise disappointing album. And I'm trying to pin point just exactly what it is that people find so amazing about it, and all I hear is a cheap Bjork imitation. Saved only by saxophone, and a slightly twenty's tinge.

And I'm thinking about all the things that I haven't achieved today, and how empty my apartment looks, half furnished, and the orange balloon adrift in the silent three am street, silent except for the shards of piano from my window. And the apartment I used to stay at with the lads, and the people we used to see, and the places we used to go, and the clubs we'd frequent, and the crazy things we do. And how we'd probably be sitting in a beer garden right now, drinking, laughing, and how I'd probably say something like 'I'm going to make a call' and we'd all know that I'd really be going to vomit somewhere. Or how we'd probably be drinking Snake Bite, and talking about better music than CocoRosie, planning a evening drive, and how nothing would matter except the night ahead, and who'd pull more girls, or who'd get more numbers, and the promise of muscle guys and podium dancers, and nothing would matter except now. And how we could be sitting in a beer garden right now, if I weren't sitting here. And I guess I'll see you on Friday old friend.