Smells good

Down south again. The air smells different here. Upon rising from my pit at the artificially late hour of eight, I can smell it straight away. Not a bad different either, a familiar one. Back in home plate, I drive past my old school and the playing field grass has a distinctive whiff; a bit mossy but different to the grass in codland that just smells grassy, sprayed with weedkiller once too often. It's a home smell rather than just a smell. Teens running about half dressed with their mates, was that once me? Hope not, for the sake of the public taste in my home village. Poor bastards, don’t realize the shite they’ve got coming their way yet.

They’re cleaning the Cornhill while I wait; a couple of driven machines wash and brush the waste from the market away. The young guy with a brush is on his first day on the job by the look of things, boots and overalls conspicuously brand new. Already bored, he has a cigarette between his fingers as he grips his broom. The place is alive with strutting Turks, all testosterone, perfect dark hair and insecurity. The old thin bearded guy in a wheelchair trundles himself across the square; he looks like the type that STILL believes that god is good and loves him. The one man in town still with a dodgy black heavy metal mullet, spotless shiney leather jacket and Deep Purple t-shirt STILL hasn't prayed at the temple of the Fashion-Sensie - mate, from one man to another, you look like a tit. Well, the night is fun, holds concerns of it's own but I do like bimbling around hometown on a summers evening, although these days I do it with a camera like a tourist; you can bet nobody else is taking photo's of a row of derelicts that used to be shopping, and then the bulldozers are in and it's gone. That's maybe why I'm a shutterhead?