tanja

At the station today I overhead someone saying that #80 bus was late; it was caught in traffic. I took it upon myself to start walking until the bus saw fit to catch up with me, which it never did. For an hour I walked past three Gothic graveyards, a series of Tandoori take-out establishments, the Posh Pets dog groomers, a number of ivy-covered bed and breakfasts, and finally the News & Booze, where I picked up a cheap bottle of Stella Artois and a roll of Smarties - candies I tend to yearn for in the States, even though they taste remarkably like M&Ms. It must be the tubular packaging that calls to me just like the scent of curry and the pungent smell of big red roses in bloom. After my journey I finally made my way back to my little hotel, where Malcolm the 70-something tattooed native Geordie greeted me by name. Not only did he open my bottle of Stella for me, he poured it in a glass, and I told him after this trip,
I would somehow make my way back.

In my room at the hotel, I sit watching bitchy British TV while eating my Smarties.
They are not just like M&Ms; they are like nothing I ever have a chance to have.