Thursday, September 30, 2004

I walk the streets

I waited until just after 6 a.m. and then set off for the 24 hour shop. Ireland being Ireland, I wasn’t completely sure the 24 hour shop would be open.

I imagined some guy inside the shuttered store opening a hatch and saying “You’ll be wanting the 26 hour shop just down the way, there, we’re 24 hours, but we close for a while when the shop’s empty, you know, gets very quiet at night, especially when we switch out the lights and put the shutters up.”

But the store was open.

A woman who had her nose broken a fair few times climbed out of a taxi. Maybe a heroin addict, maybe a prostitute, maybe both. Not that I mind what someone is. But there was this enormous feeling of disapproval pouring from the big overmuscled man in his green jersey behind the counter, as this woman put together the things she wanted.

"A litre of milk! A litre..."
"It's behind you."

This knowing look to me while the woman was turned away. I didn't bother sharing his moment.

What really angered me was this guy, in a tiny shop, in the middle of the night, without a policeman, without a priest, couldn't find a tiny piece of humanity.

Outside, a black taxi driver waited for her.


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