A skirling, screeching sound-scar is inhibiting work. It's a penny whistle in the wrong mouth. The melody-wrestler is adept enough; it's the repetitive swirls, twirls and pavement burls that are having a blocking effect in the cranial area, as bad as some kind of radio signal jammer. I'm tied to my machine and can't slope off. All the ideas are jumping up and down to be noticed but communication between hemispheres is as dead as a hairpin. If I could afford it, I'd give the whistler some dosh to find a spot further, say, half-a-mile, from my window.
Ping! Cartoon, low-energy lightbulb! I'll invite him in. Opening the bronchitic door for the first time feels like an audition; it hasn't been my routine recently, my pathway of desire. The light, sharp as a razor, is a pleasant experience but smacks the pale blue and yellow eyeballs like a torch on a cro-magnon cave-wall. Is it my face screwed into a crumpled newspaper full of bad news or possibly my staggering gait? Because, for some reason, he backs off, grabbing his bag, pocketing the instrument, and declining my offer as if he were a stretcher case suddenly reincarnated as a whippet.
Oh, well.
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