230PM The frantic headlong rush. Christmas shoppers packed to the gunwales into capsule delivery systems for the short, but tortuous, muted journey home. Afternoon drinkers eye parcels with a mixture of rueful guilt and low-key despair. Back to the sacred pint. Christmas spirit in optic, bottle and beer pump. Ex-lovers looking suspiciously at each other as they give away body language tells that would lose them key hands at poker. Romantic roulette. Wrapping paper which will lie unused jostles with today's Metro as I spy the messianic artist caught in a schizoid reverie; great bloke, his psychoses harm no one, not for him voices compelling to wound or kill, just a gentle connection to an unseen god.
345PM Pulse slow and even as lives begin to slow to a rhythm that neither upsets nor panics; bus drivers make sure elderly commuters make it to the pavement with their precious cargo. A smile as a giggly teenager thanks me for letting her off in front of me. Season's niceties? No, just old fashioned manners.
458PM Opaque windows from pate making occludes the frozen landscape. Gaia is warming a tad as I anticipate another locomotive trip south east. John Martyn soothes through his strangled and pained paean to Sapphire. I wait for her patiently. She's coming in on time. No riptide, black ice or avalanche. Coming in on time. Thanks John, you are missed.
(Dedicated to the memories of my father and Iain David Macgeachy (John Martyn)) Happy Christmas to you all, wherever or whoever you may be.
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