EC2

Hanging cats of the city, prevaricators of the weekend, groundhogs, sleazy suited groundhogs whose pink and blue pastel shirts and Gieves & Hawkes manicured presences are everywhere tonight, wavering before the threat of the weekend – Friday is their desolation day and it will be drowned in ale – welcome to the measure dome – the streets are full of talking in riddles and the bottom of the glass will ne’er come too soon, Felix, ready for another – upon which they shall ridicule the radical, standing on the week’s last hilt and seeing how deep the blade of it will go, stockbroker’s metaphorical suicide – the throng heaves a sigh of collective relief, devouring the high standard of Leadenhall and Axe, the banners, the caustic joust of architecture just there – and they are sweating blood money and relishing deep down deviant behaviour that they’ll never be a part of – that’s the way the City echo falls, fat echo, rounded echo, echo of the drunk – there’s one: pig-eyed nausea at Monument, unsure if he’s on the market floor and waving for stock or hailing a cab, swaying in the mystic wind of Axe, listening for a pin to drop, attempting to divine salary and hoping upon hope for his dusty frisson of lust with Rebecca perhaps (if she ever returns the call), she’s a peach (I jest but only just) – the infinity ward, the ever rolling static of the City of L on a Friday evening, the clocks still rolling for time-bombs and the ancient city’s behemoth waking slowly beneath the cobble stones and chrome crossroads – all second-hand rumour and bleeding heart agony is spilling from suit sleeves, the fear/ache of loneliness at the back of the mind whispers, knowledge of irredeemable time passing in routine upon routine, out into the street, following the drainage path of the old Fleet, along gutters and into drains, between cobble stones, rippling at Leadenhall and through Bevis Mount – by the end of the night one figure has staggered all the way to Southwark Bridge and is spasmodically thrusting arms and legs out into the air, his suit amazingly unruffled, head already sore and he’s hoping upon hope that tomorrow is Monday for fear that he may have to wake up to himself if it’s not -