Now Playing: Vulture
Getting tired of squinting out of the window, today I walked to the Internet cafe to photocopy documentation which proves, at least, my own existence, in order to qualify for a residents parking disc for Groove Park.
The photocopier was broken but on my way out I scoped Mr. Welsh at terminal number 10 checking his gmail.
I waited for over an hour at the bus stop opposite the cafe, observing with one eye, Bagman Byl making coffee with a jam-jar and some tepid water, the other on the door to the cafe, waiting for Mr. Welsh to emerge.
After he left, I went into the cafe and hired a terminal, specifying that I wanted number 10, beside the window. My biggest fear or fantasy perhaps, was, I suppose, that Mr. Welsh had stumbled across this site, and that I was rumbled but a quick flick through the history panel in Internet Explorer for the previous two hours allayed my apprehensions.
Before terminating the session, I rummaged through the recycle bin and there at the bottom, underneath the Polish CV's and the real Indian soap opera clips was the discarded fragment of a story.
For posterity's sake I retrieved it from the bin and have retained it for possible future publication on this site, pending legal and ethical consultations with both my solicitors and colleagues in the NUJ.
I mean, if he threw it away, he doesn't want it any more, correct?
Please let me know how you feel on this issue and whether you think I should publish or be damned.
