I have a job. I work behind toughend glass in an off-licence. The alceys', (I need to confess this: she, pushing that pram and she is sixteen years old in my mind. She always...[once]) young mothers who buy two bottles of lambrini bianco at 1.5Litres a drop; Tenent's Super drinkers with (see a scar squaring their nostrils); LOOK UP; I tell myself that all of this is good for my career as a guru and it's a guru now because that's what The Guardian's Clearing suppliment catagorises my gap-year plans as and I can't be arsed to disagree this evening/morning, but my job is making me hate-full and I'm sure that I'm learning nothing about my customers. I will stay here for a while but if I'm thinking about running away to France every night then perhaps I should do something that isn't such a battle, and work outside of my hood too.
Request:
A metaphore for the way that I need a love, at the moment.
thanks - in advance - (I get that from the shop.)
and that's it I guess it's late enough. I know ya'll know what I mean about the love thing but gawd if I can't think of anything right now, a morsel that might commit me to the idea.
xxx