A Meerkat on Cocaine

I make my way home through town. Last year’s Christmas lights drape the street, unlit. They look like barbed wire. Above the lights, a few stars linger in the black sky like confused homeless people wondering whether to spend the last of their money on some crack or a bed for the night. Chippie workers fire up their deep fat fryers and kebab shops prepare meat for the Saturday night piss heads. An extravagant flashing sign displaying doner meat on a skewer causes me to squint. A smell of cooking oil and spiced lamb fills the high street. Corrugated iron shutters are pulled over shop windows like armour, bouncers who look like walking biceps in woolly hats take their position outside pubs and clubs and taxis begin to clutter the kerbs like prostitutes. A group of people walk past me and laugh loudly, which irritates me. I start to walk at a faster pace, my breath in the cold dark air like fumes from an exhaust pipe. I pass St Peter’s church and a First World War memorial plaque attached to a small stone is slightly illuminated by a dim light. Engraved names of great British soldiers who laid down their lives for their country are barely visible by the low wattage bulb. The soldiers’ names rest above half a dozen cigarette ends, a used condom and an empty can of Stella. My heart starts pounding and I feel as though I’m strapped to a roundabout as I continue walking. Different styles of music blare through open windows. There is a different sound in every direction. Accents, laughter, car horns, car stereos, modified engines, coughing, sneezing, hiccupping, footsteps; slow, fast, extremely fucking fast. They blend together like tinnitus. Short of breath, I stop for a second outside Tesco and try to compose myself. I catch my reflection in the window. I look like a meerkat on cocaine.