Tuesday, 1 December 2009

Fresh out of the box.

So what next?

After a frantic scorched-earth cleaning policy in the cube, until it smelt and looked decent again, I had lashed the stinking clothes I had been wearing into the laundry basket and decided to finally part ways with my Reebok's...

They had given me a long, hardy service way beyond the time-span they were originally designed for. They had seen many memorable escapades and been walked, ran, danced in and kicked off by the heels in countless places.

For something made for an absolutely minuscule amount of money, on a production line manned by shockingly under-paid, over-worked and under-aged slaves in some face-less Indonesian sweat-house before I eventually took them out of a box, tried them on and parted around 600% of their face value in a jazzy liverpool city-centre sportswear emporium for...they had been trusty, comfy and dependable training shoes.

But they were coming apart at the seams, smelled like hell and had served their last shift. I launched them into the bin unceremoniously.

There was a beautiful pair of Vintage Adidas ZX, smooth royal blue numbers with an understated yet timeless look to them, still nestling unworn in the shoe-box on top of my wardrobe. Weather and compatible ironed clothing availability permitting, they would be broken in tonight, I determined.

I stood under the shower for maybe 30 minutes, feeling the toxins slowly, stubbornly oozing away through my pores.

I had a precision shave, studied and controlled.

It being a free weekend, I didn't have the enemy of time and getting ready to contend with work. So I could afford to take my time and be at one with the razor - zen style, rather than tearing up my face with it like normal.

There was a satisfyingly large amount of gloopy stubble in the sink when I had finished. I rinsed it out, broke out a fresh unused toothbrush and roughly scrubbed my fangs until they sparkled.

I was still shaking the water loose from the holes in my head as I pulled on a low- key blue sweater and a pair of light grey Armani jeans I had been saving for a drinking excursion.

The new footwear was tight, but not uncomfortable. They looked pleasingly sleek prowling beneath the new denims, and squeaked with the cries of box-fresh new soles on the fake wooden surfaces.

I grasped for my mobile. 4:00pm. Not a bad effort considering the workload involved and the attention to detail required.

I dialled Linda's number.

Five rings.



I debated whether to call again, or text message her.


This called for something direct, in the face.

I reached for my jacket, pocketed my keys and phone and headed out towards the city below, clouded in hazy rain and a dying ember sun.

The now too familiar voice whispered to me again.

Just front it.......