You must login to vote
Midday. And this maddog englishman is taking a walk;
Too hot indoors, so I'm out, in the too-hot outdoors.
The sun has moved our island to the Meditteranean for the week
And the English (predictably, perhaps) are complaining.
I walk down a suburban road, keeping to the right for the shade.
But there's few trees, and only an inch of shadow from
The hedges that border every garden; those modern British castle battlements
That neighbours use to peer suspiciously when anyone walks by.
Despite the heat, there's music in the air.
Hard to catch - it rises and falls like the heat haze that carries it.
On the left, a church service running late; voices singing a familiar hymn;
And further on, from an upstairs window, pop music from a teenager's stereo.
And in the midst of this, a car cruises by. Black BMW;
Body panels flexing rhymically in time to the gangsta rap,
Like a body-builder posing to an audience.
The privet borders twitch again as it passes.
Then turning into the final stretch of the walk.
A main road: more traffic, more noise, and (as if it were possible) more heat.
Past some workmen digging through the already semi-molten tarmac,
And finally through the door, and into the furnace I call home.
Spudley Strikes Again