You have to start somewhere

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'I would like to be an architect' said the sweaty young Czech student in shining, multi-coloured sports lycra as he exited the local Aldi shop to his pal who, rather bemused, just turned to him and said 'But then why are you doing an economics degree?'. 'Well', said our erstwhile hero, 'You have to start somewhere'. And I think that's exactly it: you have to start somewhere. Even if you don't want to be an architect, in fact.
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Ally Kerr - 'The sore feet song' (3.07)
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The loon bides here, eh.
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We're both at our best in a tight spot

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His assisted height nearly matches his fanciful strides; footloose stomps travelling to a railwayed destination, I would guess. The bag on wheels and A-Z map in hand are the rather unsubtle clues. A bitten cigar tossed carelessly to the side just misses a neatly scarfed woman, on cardboard knees, pleading for offerings from those walking by, the same people pretending to be too busy to acknowledge her being or ordeal. I steal a glance to his side, his left-side, attempting to keep pace with the final furlong approaching. There is no tie but an open-necked wound, a deep shade of colour in his glowing cheeks, matching his apparel, and a harsh wind bites deep into masked layered cracks. I’d thought early fifties, from behind, but perhaps slightly older. The mannerisms, purpose and clothing are deceptive; they scream ‘I Am Interesting’ and ‘I Am Not Dead Yet’. I recognise (some of) the signs and symbols exhibited. We are travelling similar paths, you and I, but are more than a million miles apart in reality. I could never match such poise, movement and direction; this intoxicating mixture had my admiration from first glance. A phone goes off to the sound of an X Factor chart-hit I clearly don’t want to recognise and a swarm of genderless pre-teens shout in unison ‘It’ll be him, fucking well answer it!’ This distraction leads to another; for a moment I lose sight of the target as I am led astray by the smell of a distant, chemically enhanced, Greggs product I can only smell hospitals and nostalgia from. But, there he is. The man in the purple suit. Ahead and bold, steering into the barren station that I also, unwillingly, march towards in search of a future I’m not sure I am ready for.
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The Lucksmiths - 'Self-preservation' (2.03)
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