To anyone who has sought sanctuary in AFB as brief respite from a world of instagrammed cupcakes and spelt bread – I apologise.
I apologise to the 99%, the everymen, the pop-culture nomads just trying to find their way and the hollowed-out junkyard emperors clad in the ashen robes of their aspirations.
To the street drinkers, the free thinkers, the rough sleepers and the night creepers; to the gravel-tongued Casanovas in tracksuits and track-marked beauty queens wishing for a better tomorrow; to the children crying under the neon gaze of the bedsit moon and the babies that suckle at the teat of stars spelling ‘nowhere’; to the activists dragging placards like tanks across the billboarded minefield and the shadowed poets inking their nails across the slate of their destiny –
It wasn’t meant to be this way.
It wasn’t meant to end like this.
But sometimes… sometimes the chicken of life lays eggs we just have to fry.
Sometimes the fork of hope gets jammed in the spaghetti of reality.
Yes, sometimes you just have to blog about Parsnip and Manuka Honey Crisps.
I’m not proud of myself. I do not think myself superior. Lord knows I don’t even thinking myself adequate. But I DO know this – I frequently think myself hungry. And I think myself adventurous (is that SO wrong?). And so it was that, on a chilly Wednesday night, with the city exhaling its forgotten dreams, I thought, “sod it, I don’t have no obligation to no one, this is MY blog* and if I want to eat and subsequently write sweet, sweet poetry about Parsnip and Manuka Honey Crisps, then THAT IS MY RIGHT! I AM A STRONG, INDEPENDENT, SOCIALLY AWARE, FULLY PAID-UP MEMBER OF THE HUMAN RACE**, AND I WANT MY CRISPS!!!”
And lo! They were pretty nice. A bit salty, but OK.
*and that of Gary. Never forget Gary.
** no Tories need apply. SATIRE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!