Journal Entry, 20th January 2016

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A day typing in the old town near Bill’s old house, no folk singers in the pub opposite today, unusual for a Wednesday. Bought a couple a cup of tea and heard a story about a wandering bear. People are excited about next year, about the potential. It’s good to see. They’re still tearing up half of the city centre for the statues and what not, sprucing the gaff up for when the dignitaries descend. I hope they build somewhere warm for people to sleep. Dickensian scenes in every other shop doorway, sleeping bags and cardboard, one young man cross legged on the cold concrete, blank zen gaze, just a doffed cap at his heel, turned up, expectant, no eye contact, a cold day for reverie. Me, I hand out bacon butties from Greggs and sling the occasional handful of silver, guilt money maybe, yes, perhaps, who has the answers? What do you do? You can’t use reason or pleading, these bastards in the big house are deaf to both. You’re only two missed paydays away, or so they say. Deborah who used to run the northern soul nights, she’s a good soul, gets her hands dirty with it all. The bells of the old town played wooden heart and I wrote a thing about having a stone rattling around in my boot. I can feel it now when I shake my foot beneath the table. The new Underworld tune is a glistening tower of a thing. That American woman with the shiny glasses and the hair has popped up again. Simplistic language. Like my friend the heavenly professor said, if it walks like a duck …