Women carrying bags in the crook of their arm.
yeah, whilst carrying huge cups of molten hot de cafe twist. de rigueur in the square mile.
me and my fellow kibble merchants would dream of walking up behind them and slashing their achilles heel or the tightly packed tendons in their tanned,smooth muscular calf's, the high heel shoes acting as a plinth displaying a trophy .
id be dizzy with the excitement and would have to sit down, drunk on the anticipation, the need to act upon this impulse making my hands shake.
in my twenties and thirties one would get an apprecitive smile from these women in the street, now at 45 i either get ignored as if i dont exist or looks of pathalogical hatred and disgust , which naturally ,i drink in with great glee and satisfaction.
lunchtimes would be spent in drakes wine bar leadenhall market , discussing how we would take bolt cutters to the bones on the joint of the inner thigh ,rendering the woman like a broken cindy doll and therefor more easy to mould to our wishes , like malleable ,like clay, like putty.
we would push our steaks/encroute/calves liver around the plate with no intention of ever eating it, while shouting "wear it! through gritted teeth at any woman within radius .
"I rode on the back decks of a blinker and watched c-beams glitter in the dark, near the Tanhauser Gate.... All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain"
the lovely jo will be appearing in this months bedrock version of 'readers wifes'
im now but a humble servant to the public, a jumped up pantry boy , who never knew his place....