Swimming pool acoustics.
ATMs. Escalators. Nothing of interest anywhere. I bet they have
nothing by Durkheim in the bookshop. (I'll ask for the laugh.)
People, unattractively good looking and numerous. Hollister. Harvey
Nichols. House of Fraser. Nama. Austere couture. I could have sworn I
saw an imperial stormtrooper. My mate calls this place the Death
Star. I met her for coffee on the fourth floor balcony. I couldn't
see her and that's how I knew it was her. Her voice emitting behind a
tower of purchases. She spoke of fit celebrities and favoured
restaurants. She cast doubt on welfare recipients. She made frequent
mention of her sundry achievements. 'I guess as a person, you could
say I'm kind of driven.' And that's when I felt driven to do
something.
I stood on my chair and jumped on the
table. Then I placed a foot on the balcony rail. She screamed beyond
her shopping as I escaped the Empire's clutches, plummeting down and
away from consumer dismay. As Han Solo once said – 'boring
conversation anyway'.
