Beyond the high fence, still slightly redolent with the dizzying odour of week old creosotes, the saturday children scream. Little girls in track-suit bottoms, probably spitting at the thought of dolls. Little boys, armed to the teeth with plastic toys, perhaps practising for world war three. Here in my garden I sit, sipping my third or fourth cup of tea. The sun comes out like a bomb from behind the only cloud, that moves like an injured slug across the sky. The weeds on my lawn cast their shades on a fortunate few daisies. The rest are strewn like mini fried-eggs in the ever-cool green grass. The sweating roses by the hedge are moaping in approval of some unknown breeze. And the bone-dry laundry on the line is rigid, like sun-dried, shrivelled, unpicked fruit. Somewhere an engine starts and revs like anger. Methinks the car is hot and red and has an evil gleam. Somewhere, beyond the hedge, two unknown neighbours giggle at this and boring that. Somewhere a car alarm sounds off, like some monstrous mobile-phone. Somewhere, above, a jumbo-jet wounds the sky, -leaves a roaring white scar; it's belly filled with fattening people, who seek hotter lands to be fried some more. And I slurp my humble tea and methinks that planes ought to go on a diet. I detect the lawn-mowers of tomorrow, still sleeping in their messy sheds. And in this in-tune state I hear the murder-like scream of a happy child. And a child who must've screamed the same smiles up at me from yesterdays newspaper on my lap. Poor soul! 'tis the first boring saturday he never got to see. Now, some three or four hours later, some cool shadows have come to grow on my lawn. In another garden, a stones throw away, a restless lawn-mower whines of lazyness, whispers rumours of a hose-pipe. In the last little while I have popped into my house, here and there, for this and that. I have flicked from sport to saturday sport on the t.v. I have answered the impolite saturday phone call. I have tried to swat the saturday flies, who are still probably racing around their invisible triangles in the kitchen air. And I know that in three or four hours from now, the screams of the saturday children will be no more. The lawn-mower will be back in its wooden bed with the spiders and the spades. The red-hot car may come back to simmer down. The setting sun will breathe over the saturday houses like some fantastic yellow yawn. And the saturday night stars will start to arrive. But as for now, 'tis just another, every other, boring saturday.Birth sign: Cancer
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