Julian Birchwood says “Hello”

Today I am trying out the feel of a fictional character who I shall call Julian Birchwood. So, how are you guys? I’m about 50 years old and I wear comfortable slightly shabby, might-once-have-been-a-bit-trendy clothes. I’m feeling ok this morning [let’s say 5/10 on a general purpose mood scale]. It is just past 9.30 a.m and I am sitting on the minimalist metal bench seat at the Metro station. I have to wait until this time, so I can use my author’s free travel pass. He sometimes gets up my nose but, regrettably, there is not a lot I can do about that since I owe my existence to him. The bench is no wider than the span of an octave on the piano. This is true because my author just checked it with his left-hand boogie fingers. The metal on this seat is perforated as if it had been designed to sieve vegetables in a food-processing factory. Either that or a lot of incontinent people use this stop.

The train is coming and I move towards an opening door. At the last moment I change my mind and shift to the next carriage in order to increase distance from a whiney brat that is being hauled onto the train by its mother. I am now comfortably sat on the upholstered metro seat. The computerised announcer (female, general-purpose English accent) bleats on with her incessant updates about approaching stations. I survey the scene with half-closed eyes. Many passengers are plugged into their digital music players. The view from the window is changing far too quickly to be chronicled, so it will have to remain my secret. I feel quite pleased about that (I am not as nice as my author). I rub the palm of my hand the wrong way across the nap of the seat covering. I breathe a sigh of relief that my author has not made me the young woman with the short mini-skirt who, in her rush to get to work because she over-slept, forgot to put her panties on this morning. Mind you, I think I might be meeting her for a drink in the next chapter, so I hope she doesn’t have time to go home and change.

I have been to Windows, the wonderful music shop in the Central Arcade. I had a nice chat with a very pretty young woman about form in classical music. In the end I came out with a book that was originally published in 1907. The sort of music whose form interests me was composed prior to that date, so I don’t think it matters that it is so old. I just love spending my author’s money!

Central Arcade

I then checked out several sports and shoe shops in search of a pair of trainers but I found nothing that I wanted. All this traipsing about the shopping centre has made me tired, so I go to Di Marco’s café and order an Americano coffee with cold milk on the side, together with a Parma ham, mozarella and pesto panini.

Di Marco’s café

I sit at a table outside. The coffee is excellent and the panini is wonderful. I watch the ebb and flow of people and traffic moving up and down Grey street. Across the road a security guard nervously walks out of the bank clutching a small case which is, presumably, filled with cash. I suppose it could be his wife’s make-up bag but that might be overstretching the imagination somewhat. I have to be careful about doing that sort of thing or my author gives me a hard time. In fact I can feel that he is starting to close the pages of his notebook as I speak. By the time his pen is returned to his jacket breast pocket, I shall have temporarily ceased to exist. Speak to you later, my dear blogophiles.

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