Fragment #4 - Walking

The streets are alive, people buying, people selling. Albeit drugs. And who am I to frown if the business purveyors happen to be seven? I have to admit that the thought of buying speed from someone with pubes would feel slightly strange now. I walk down this road every day more or less and never fail to see the strange anthropological significance in it. Street corners packed with junkies, scum and fourteen-year-old mothers of five wheeling round those multi-buggies full of screaming, dirty and malnourished children while shouting down their top-of-the-line mobile phone to her ‘Man’ about her latest purchase/shoplift. I can almost guarantee that one of those poor water brained future crime statistics is called kiaran. Ah poor kiaran the third of five, from an early age he was doomed, his mother had wanted to name him after his Dad, but the grandparents objected to a prison number. He only ever got to see his father at visiting day in the prison; this led to him thinking that the jail was a fun place where Daddy lived. From the day he was born he was sentenced to his upbringing, there is nothing so sad and disgusting as a baby who’s instinct to suckle is only triggered by a straw from a fast-food restaurant. Bad people aren’t born, they’re made.
I’m in a foul mood. I’m in the middle of town; walking, thinking and possibly muttering to myself from what I can deduce from the looks passers by are giving me. I do this a lot more these days, last week I found myself singing on the underground when I had my headphones on. I am a little bit concerned about this.
My sister is moving in tomorrow. This is the thought that keeps dancing through my mind every time I put my cigarette to my mouth. I glance about me, drop my fag to the ground and put it out with my foot. It's time to go home and tidy up.