…in the Work of T S Eliot is clutched in my arms against Blast 2 by Wyndham Lewis and comrades, and other works of Eliot. Two crossings back a knifed madman has closed the street, taken to the rooftops on some lunatic crusade.
I had sat outside the university eating sandwiches in the cold and wondered why so many police cars slipped along the empty backstreets. Stumbling on the police cordon while looking for more old buildings to capture on Polaroid film, I didn’t linger. The security guard in the library chats about the cold and I spoke for the only time today.
While I stomp in fake fur, fake DM boots, hugging my books of Vorticists along Goodge street the knife man falls through a skylight. Of course I am oblivious to it all and only discover hours later through a helpful Twitterer what I walked beside. Time is out of synch like that and so is my literary tense..
“Is that the Shard?” a perfectly posh woman’s voice asks behind me.
All that is in view is the BT tower, the very round unshardish shard thing we built above the rooftops around here.
“Must be the Shard,” her friend assures her.
I grin and lead their way to Tottenham Court road where they overtake. She has the same proportions as her “shard’ tower; supermodel physique no high heels. Her friend is an incredibly short ginger man wearing various tones of ginger suede from collar to soles.
I rushed corner to corner, across and across to St Giles.
In the drizzle the gates to the Phoenix garden were open, silently waiting. It is the garden I wrote of blogs ago all locked up- ‘The Girl in the Rookery’
The garden holds all the faded, lingering plants of a new year queuing up for spring. Unsteady brick paths wind me around to secretive benches tucked behind the church spire. It is like a garden in a parcel you can pause in. A black cat licks itself clean on a bench.
And a man in black I can’t look in the face of mumbles with lost mind ‘isshittt’ over and over to his shoes but isn’t scary or aware of anyone. The ghost of Rookeries past.