A bright, brisk morning
In a small English town,
I order an extra shot americano
In the one coffee house
That does not reek of grease,
And take a seat outside.
From the doubtful comfort of my
Three and a half legged plastic chair
I scan the temptations around me:
“Nails Palace – Professional Nail Care for Ladies”,
“Cash Generator – the Buy, Sell and Loan Store”,
“Tanning Heaven”,
And the Salvation Army’s “Community Store”,
Promising “Heart to God, Hand to Man”.
“Eel Pie Island”, specialists in all day breakfasts,
Proudly proclaims in yellow, peeling letters,
It is a “Caf’e”, an apostrophe planted
Between the “f” and “e”.
The “Hot 4 U Pizza, Chicken and Kebab” house
Has closed, victim of too much competition
In the fast food field,
Proof that you CAN have
Too much of a good thing.
Unless it’s burgers and jumbo sausage rolls.
Obesity is a badge of honour here.
In frayed makeshift marquees
And spread along the pavement,
Traders display their wares –
Leather jackets, shell suits,
Batteries, watches, mobile phones,
Toys, rugs, carpets, curtains,
Handbags, purses and luggage –
Each screaming the critical selling point of
Affordability.
Relatively.
The saucy entreaties of the meat wagon guy
To “come on girls, don’t be shy,
Give my lovely meat a try”
Trigger giggles but no takers;
A further invitation to pinch his pork loins
Is similarly snubbed.
Granville’s traditional barber’s shop
Has closed after fifty years;
Its red and white striped pole
No longer rotates, confirming
There’s nothing for the weekend here.
Supplanted by a succession
Of glitzy Turkish emporia
Offering an eye watering array
Of treatments for every part
Of the modern male head and face.
The Lord Raglan pub is also boarded up,
A ragged, handwritten paper sign
Flaps in the vape drenched breeze;
Some wag has inserted an “i”
Between the words “to” and “let”.
Country crooners from the fifties
Trill through the babble
Of Bengali, Romanian, Arabic
And English
That assail my ears.
The RAC canvasses for new recruits
But most people here do not drive,
Unless you count the cavalcade of
Motorised scooters and wheelchairs
Wreathed with union jacks and teddy bears
Parked outside the padlocked toilets.
Bald middle aged white men,
Their relationship with teeth
Over,
Flaunt their body art
Of indecipherable oriental slogans,
Football team allegiances
And the obligatory catalogue
Of proud progeny,
Many of whom they have
Not seen for years.
Japanese tosas and pit bull terriers,
Acquired more for their menace
Than their questionable cuteness,
Slowly encircle each other,
Doing nothing more threatening
Than exploring each other’s private parts.
Teenage mums congregate outside Gregg’s
To share a cigarette and debate
Last night’s episode of Love Island,
To compare frilly pram accessories,
And to show off the clothes just bought
For Noah and Amelia in Primark.
Occasionally they turn around to bark
At their same bored and testy toddlers
Committing the heinous crime of
Being children.
An Albert Steptoe tribute act
Stutters along the street,
Peering professionally
Into every bin and doorway
For bottles, fag ends
And unfinished food scraps,
Leaving the council street cleaner
To deal with the discarded needles.
The midday sun glints through
The single, leafless tree,
Where neither Vladimir nor Estragon wait,
As I drain my second americano
And head for home.
And yet, it is I who feels observed,
A figure of curiosity,
Even suspicion,
With my fancy coffee,
Collection of Eliot’s poetry
And notebook and pen,
Observing and trying to capture
Life.
Tony Quarrington 