Chip Shop

Despite my reservations, I am wandering the streets of the town in the
company of several people with whom I have little in common. The evening
has been dominated by the seemingly random sallies into pubs populated almost
exclusively by large men in vests, with whom I have absolutely nothing in
common. Every glance upwards reveals a sky that has been soaked the
colour of undistinguished lager. Each time i attempt to join in the obvious
jollity of the occasion I am drowned out by the inadvertant yelping of my
compatriots, and I resort to adoping a vacuous yet friendly expression
whenever any inquiry is made in my direction.

We stand in a huddle of indecision outside a brightly-lit doorway, and
earnest debate fall around my ears as I watch, with unbelieving nausea, a chef
in the chip shop opposite shoo a flaming, yet living, pigeon from the window
of his establishment. The flying, sputtering lump of flame erupts from the
window with an erratic path that is subsumed from my attention by an enquiry
from my colleagues regarding money. I answer with rapidity, only to turn my
gaze back to find the burning bird which has disappeared from my view. After an
eternity of boredom we emerge from the club. The pigeon is lying in the
gutter, curiously expanded, horribly burnt, utterly dead.