Fulham Myself

By George, it's George.

Yes. This is me walking.  Walking with my headphones on.  The streets of Fulham resemble the scene in front of me.  The resemblance is strong, because it is the streets I speak of that disappear behind the crunch of my new boots.  Yet, the traffic circle does not seem real; even though my conscious is stronger than my imagination, my mind doubts what I see. 

The Black Keys are the voice in my head, my voice as it may be between anchored steps. Not but an inch of my white headphones show, the stage draped in my cumbersome scarf and hat.  My phone is tucked deep inside my breast pocket; I fear I overdressed for the occasion.  I’m not that cool, I think, I’m walking like an old man and my new phone isn’t even activated yet.

I cross the street and feel the music in my step, the history of the township evident in the rusted street sign built into the brick wall across the way.  I picture German war planes above me, but I’m too caught up in the jams to look up.  Instead, I wonder which Beatle I am.  This is not easy, my first choice is dead and my second pick may be a kick-ass drummer but he is not really known for his looks.  Paul was too cute and I can’t place the other guy, but I forgive myself for the moment as I am in the middle of the street.

I reach Putney Bridge and decide that I am Ringo.

The empty seat was not exactly clean, but I take it anyway.  The show must stop. I take my ear plugs out and unbutton my coat.  It is effing hot in the train, hey they took down the Kindle ads.  I appease a hankering to write down the amusing and perhaps concerning thoughts I just had on my short walk to the station.  

Mental note: Check out the mugs of the Beatles, research jet-lag, and activate my phone.

Blogged from my iPhone