It was around 11pm. I hurried down Camden High Street, towards Euston station,
my scarf blowing in the chilled breeze,
reaching in the opposite direction where I spent 2 hours consuming poetry,
my mind a blank paper, the artists a swirling nourishing ink.
My stomach growled, an angry reminder that I had neglected it. Chosen words over substance, words over… a nice sausage roll.
The growl turned into glee, as I remembered I had pretzels in my bag!
‘I need something sweet’, I thought. My stomach needs balance to be appeased, ying and yang, sweet and salty,
Pretzels and Fanta fruit twist!
I walked into a corner shop towered by an estate looking un-homely, as two teenage boys grazed my shoulder on their way out, with laughter trailing behind.
One white with a grin plastered on his face, the other black, with a static afro big enough to distract my pleading stomach.
I rushed in after them and grabbed my bottle of Fanta fruit twist. This drink reminds my tongue of its first taste of summer at home, under the mango tree as I plucked my prize after battling with the tree trunk. Not home, but home home. You know the expression.
Now for the moment of truth, how much does it cost? I’ve been charged £1.90 for this last time I thought.
“That would be £1 please” he said. His wife next to him, I assume was his wife, had the same quizzical look on her face I did.
“Sorry how much?” Words echoed by us both, united by the narrative of Fanta.
“£1 please”. This would make a great advert I thought as I handed him my coin.
“You charged those boys £1.50” she loudly whispered. I loosened my tie on the way out, not caring for his reply.
And there they were, the two boys in hoodies, sweatpants, and Nikes, chatting away into the night.