Squeeky. Squeaky clean? Squeaky Fromm? What does that even mean? Squeeky, in foot high letters on the ridged steel shutter of a doorway. The building’s blue, and long, with a clockface missing handles in between two tidy windows. It reminds me of the buildings in the Yellow Submarine.
A couple wander down the street, quiet in white tracksuits, plus on him, dark leather jacket. He craddles their child, murmering something, maybe in Russian, as she pushes an empty stroller.
A group of Chinese head in to the town, eight guys for every girl, dressed like money; but so tacky, two decades behind. I wonder if in twenty years, my kids will grin and saunter down a street in Shanghai or Hong Kong, migrant workers, rubes.
The street is soaked in dirt, but smells of nothing. Tatty buildings yawing, sagging, sitting, falling oh so slowly. In the quiet of the city, in the coffee coloured night. Where am I waiting?