BRISTOL:

Weaving through labyrinths of boxes & wires, gig-turds clinging
to the soles of our trainers, swerving road grime carried in on
the feet of thousands. Clocking off before midnight. The first
soundcheck. Tommy Steel smiles knowingly upon us as we pass his
poster on the street, never ageing. Half a Sixpence glimmer,
eternally cheeky. Pulling wheelie bags unseen, we cut between
crowds of theatres disgorging faces glowing in the come-down
of after-shows. I hum ‘Little White Bull’ to the rhythm of our
tiny wheels rippling across the cracks of pavement stains.
Collars up against the chill of night, remembering not to breath
through the mouth, protecting the pipes for showtime.

(K)