Monkey + Switchblade

The night belongs to me

It’s past midnight. The senior filth is still chatting at their table, still on their first round of pints. I have cleared all the other tables but one where the railway engineer is on his last pint and the Jameson he ordered on his last round. I made the Jameson a large as I hoped this would be sufficient to induce him to the land of nod. Their tables to clear and I am done. I cash up quickly relishing that desolate moment of a big bar past closing time. The bar spots are still on so it’s bright inside a windy and cold night. The night porter a big young Nigerian comes into his shift. As usual he begs me for his glass of Merlot. I can’t be tossed so I pour him a big one. He is the only interference to my solitude. Cash ups done, credit card payments reconciled, I make my safe drop.

Then I finally pour myself a large JD and shoot it down. I quickly lock the cellar and the bar fridges. Switch off the glass washer and then the dreaded but necessary sweep and mop up. As I am about to leave the marketing crowd on a workshop return from a night in the city. They beg me for Sambuca. All of them are the classic ‘short-skirted’ marketing women and I am easily persuaded to raise the shutters for them to line up shots. Needless to say their request for me to join them is easily accepted. They are all French. I am lazy to start up the main bar register and just get them a bill from reception. They’re staying in the hotel so I can serve them and make a room transfer for the Sambuca. The full bottle disappears magically and I suddenly remember my day routine that starts at 5.30am. I am a wee tipsy. They all insist on me coming from behind the bar for long French kisses, hugs and goodnights. We all have an early morning. They have invited me for their final nights party on Saturday. I graciously divert the drunken demand by informing them that I will of course have the pleasure of serving them from behind the bar. I do however smile to myself as I reflect on what my response would and should have been many moons ago!

I quickly wash and put away the shot glasses. The entire bar lights are switched off. My final task for the day is to seal the bars keys and sign them into reception. It’s past 2am now and really cold as I walk to an empty staff car park but for my car gleaming in metallic silver under the car park floodlights. Jump in car, light up, seat belt on and I peel out the hotel. The high streets completely devoid of humans or any kind of activity on the short drive home. A fox, common in my part of the stix runs across bathed in full glory by my headlights. Foxes in the stix are healthy and big, unlike the Foxes that slink all over the city suburbs in the dead of the night. The fox has a baby rabbit held tightly in its jaws and looks at me challengingly.

I am home. Too tired to sleep and niggled that I may miss my 5.30am ritual. Quick hot shower on full blast and I sit quietly on the dining table rolling a strong one. Long smoke in the garden. It’s past 4am now and summer beckons. Already far away I see the soft purple and pink glow of sunrise. Back inside I flop into bed for a quick nap. The dog protests as he is occupying my side of the bed.

I reflect on what a punter said last night. ‘You got to work as hard as you can while your body allows it’. True, and I guess in my case, as long as you enjoy it. For my body is long past its sell by date.

The gentle sandalwood waft of her perfume

She leans across the bar

Her long blonde hair brushes my face

I glimpse her cleavage

I see she wear no bra

Her breasts encased like two jewels

Pert, firm, round and proud

Trying hard to not stare

She turns around to ask what her friends are drinking

I am allowed to stare at her pert round bottom

Encased in blue jeans

A white lace thong threatens to peer through

I am a locomotive

Shooting through the night

Horn tooting

Lights shine brightly on the rapidly disappearing track

The day is but a necessity.

The night belongs to me.

ALLSAINTS

http://www.allsaints.com/

Freedom to chill, the right to relax

I have discarded my day clothes and noose for a much more comfortable old green hoodie, sweats and Nike’s. The grass and the ground beneath me in the field are pleasantly cold. So is the weather, its 7pm and the sky is still clear as day. The sun threatens to break out fully but lies hidden. My jogging with the dog gear is sufficiently warm. Lying on my back I stare at the sky.

I spy the rainbow glistening through the clouds.  Jazz is restless. A passenger plane flies above us. I see the BA blue and red on its tail clearly. The mobile phone records the memories. My mind records the sounds and scent. There is actually little sound than a soft wind that caresses me as it passes rustling through the trees. The clean evening scent of almost summer and warm earth lull me to sleep.

It’s been a pleasant spring. Warm by English standards. 25 to 15 centigrade with the sun out in all its glory. Everyone’s enjoying it while it lasts. This could be the only month we will have this glorious weather, but its ok. The winter snowstorm on Christmas Eve seems like a distant memory.

Jazz jolts me out of my reverie as he spots a cat. He is eager to give friendly chase. I am too mellow to even allow him to think about it. He is off the leash but good. His mark of protest is to sigh loudly and flop down beside me. We both enjoy the evening twilight and the promise of darkness.

I finally roll over and get up. We begin our short walk home. I am too chilled out to even consider the act of running. It’s chilly now, but nice.

Oh and yes, the white iPhone 4 arrives tomorrow.