Waiting Time

God, I love bunking off.
Normally, I'm in my own, grumpy little authoritarian world by 8.25. Sort that out. Don't stand there. Do this for me. Now. What d'you think you're doing?
Just ten minutes of bunking off (that's all I winged it for, though I know I could have got away with two and a half hours -- I'm a good girl), and it's like opening your eyes after an operation.

In the four minutes it took to eat my bacon sanga (butter, white bread *this* thick), I noticed:

7 black people, including two kids, 1 arab woman and 3 chinese guys walked past the White Power Phonebox.
The sunrise slooowly spread across the terrace opposite.
How newsagents' windows look like a mosaic, of all the tatty notices.
Women round here are better dressed than most of South East London. My frizzed-up shower-hair must stand out.
Men load up their paunches on their belly first, but thighs and arse second. Yet they wait another five years to buy the XXL pants.
I don't wear a watch anymore. Fuck! What time is it?
The guy at the next table might be in his forties and pikey, but he has lovely eyes. P'raps there are worse things than growing old.
The 'Learner' plates on the moped outside were made by Soreen. Yes, the proud makers of the malt loaf.
Nobody ever has the right change in the White Power Phone Box.
Only grandads walk with their kids, instead of twelve paces in front of them.
I'll never manage that Cockerney Geezer accent. "Captoo tays, ployz. Na samich." They're overcompensating, anyway.

Pensioner influx. Time to go.