I must’ve fallen asleep, cuz the security guard wakes me up.
You can’t sleep in here.
I’m in MacD.
Don’t touch me!
I grab my black laptop bag and rucksack and move outside.
A huddle of homeless sit on the right, outside Tescos, in the doorway.
Two women, drunk, and two men, one asleep.
I plonk my self down.
Oi! That’s my fuken pitch, one of the women slurs.
I move over and back.
I ain’t begging.
I spot a bin liner full of sandwiches in plastic triangle cartons from Pret a Manger.
Can I? I ask, sifting thru to see what’s there.
Course ya can love.
You got a smoke? says the bloke that’s not asleep.
He’s not English.
No. Sorry. Where you from?
I open the chicken and sweetcorn sandwich.
Bite it. It’s good.
I remember I’ve got 9 bucks in my sky rocket, get up and walk on.
There must be an internet cafe open somewhere…
Head up charing cross road.
£1 an hour.
I sit at a computer.
Google hearing aid implants.
I know they’re listening to my every word.
I know this lump, in my neck, behind my ear, is a fuken implant.
Listening to my every fuken word.