Four boys going to school, one of them in DMs.
“Boxing Day’s a Thursday isn’t it?”
Talking about Christmas presents and polar bears.
It’s getting lighter outside but today is going to be one of those days that never really gets light and then it’s dark again by four.
Talking with mouths full of crisps they have opened their packed lunches already.
Now they are selling chicken wings.
“I’ll give you 40p for one.”
Chickens from factory farms, full of antibiotics so they don’t die too soon.
I have big baggy trousers on and new wide trainers.
The laces are loose.
The slightly crusty school girl is smoking B&H.
It is 08:30 and we are at Hilsea.
“Observe ESP Precautions” says the sign.
“Authorised Personnel Only”.
“Well cool place innit?”
“What number she live at?”
“Your granddad’s probably dead.”
They are talking but not one of them is particularly listening.
There is a red bus parked on the wasteland by the gas storage thingies.
“My mum gave me the water bed.”
One boy is swinging the chicken bones in a bread bag.
Crumbs of southern fried coating on the floor will be there all day, travelling up and down the line.
Five yellow bollards surround a loose paving slab next to a puddle on Fratton Station.
Approaching work in the city.