Click here to view this site's accessibility statement.
The sun is comfortably positioned in the sky, its invisible heat waves sinking into my blue collared shirt as I traipse my way back to work, my hour lunch break, at half an hour, a small record of sorts. At the corner, a man with a rasta hat brandishes a blue plastic shark and points it towards the sidewalk as shiny soap bubbles blow out of its mouth and drifts across, inviting smiles from passersby. My hand is holding a black plastic bag, and in it, a box of Hershey’s Heath, brown crispy biscuit delights sandwiching toffee and other unhealthy things. My hand travels with a mind of its own into the bag and yanks at the box, then the plastic inside, and pulls out a cookie, which my mouth unwittingly, almost instinctively, devours. But it isn’t the wolfing down of a savage or of a starved vagrant of the wild desert. It’s more of an appreciative, contemplative, substantial meal, as though each bit carves away at the time I have left before I return to work.