I walk past a fifteen year old couple huddled in the lee of All Saints, sitting on the pavement, arms wrapped around each other and hands dug in to each other’s back pockets. They don’t look up as I pass.
Further down the road a man is standing leant against the side of a shop. Tall, skinny. Black jeans teamed with faded pale blue denim shirt, the collar buttoned and the shirt sleeves roughly rolled up. Tattoos of 40s style of pin up girls and pink scaled Japanese Koy poke out from his neck line and wind down his arms.
Three men walk past me with jarhead hair cuts and stubble. They split apart to let a group of German tourists pass. I turn to the right, down a side street of cobbled stones. Half torn posters are pasted to the walls, the paper torn and weathered.
I walk past a girl with two antique pistols inked on her hip bones, and past another with a pirate ship etched down the side of her body, the tattoo visible through the loose American Apparel vest she wears. The wind blowing hard in its sails of the ship and I imagine her getting it done, talking with the tattoo artist and telling him that it represents her free spirit and that once she settles down she’ll get an anchor added to it, to represent her life.
On Brick Lane I see a boy crouched on the ground taking a photo of a chewed white lolly stick that’s lying by the side of the bin. Two girls stand next to him, back tights and black angle boots, check shirts and fur coats. ‘What are you going to do with it?’ ‘Put it on my website, probably’. The camera is an old silver Kodak, model NP23-5.
. . . Unfinished . . .