The Second Part.

Wakened from his slumber with the cracklecrackle on the radio and up, legover, clip, grip, and pedaloff.

Wrong way thru one way streets, round the end of the place one should not go, right at the good kabab shop, towards Centre-Point, past the off licence then left. Through lights, and shouts and curses, all floating off the back like so much water and are left behind. Roadworks here cause difficulty and squeezes traffic between the Scylla on the pavement and the Charybdis to the right. Through at last and freed from that damnable island of cars which will cause strike of pedals without warning. Many a red light came, oh yes, and went again behind, causing strife to the slow-witted, haze-living pedestrians (tourists mainly) who aimed to cross and move between two sides of the great gyratory path of movement. Slipslop, through and through, passed those strange shops which populate the road (those ones which only seem to sell the hats with flags on them, and the tshirts that declare themselves to be lousy, and still they pay the rent?) and then up through, onward up, and through, toward that great Circus, emblem of the carnival, with its strange unruly lights. Those lights are cursed. Then over, over just the other side till “Vision Express” is reached, optical oasis in the mire, the lenses strapped and packed, signed for and released into the cavernous bag.

Leg, over, clip, in, up, down, away. Which way? The first fears en route are realized, and truth and quickness come floating into his mind. Right again at the circus toward that symbol of modernity, the BBC, where Eric Gill stood naked from below as he carved his intricate scene, in monks habit. Past, onwards, upwards ever more, on and up, toward the centre of his world, delivery. Hand momentary on the hat to keep it on and, (have I mentioned this?) no breaks, nor any other way to slow the move of bike on road save feet designed for the feat.

Time was passing now and so he thought of lunch. Four more drops (not described here) had been and gone, and food was ever tempting hungryboy, who burned the stuff with every movement by the hour. Pumping onward everup and now slow, (for the morning rush had passed), sculling in the lazy shallows off the main flow of the moving cars and traffics, skulking back streets, looking for free-food to steal and eat, or coffee from the man who didn’t like to serve the smelly courier, for some quiet stoop on which to roll that little piece of stultifying greenness between thinger and fumb till all was stilled for some 20 minutes. Sit, strap, lick, place, spark, flame, toke, breathe. Ahhh mememe. Yes all is fine now, all is fine. Tired legs are eased and mind numbed, and (perhaps) slightly dulled, though it doesn’t feel like that from the inside thought he. Nonono not from inside does it not oh no. and so young, lean, jim sits smoking and thinking of the rest of days.