the sun dragged up into the clear blue, throwing unflattering glances at faded buildings, years without protection taking their toll, shouts from those returning home, from the fluorescent clad cleaning up the sins, the regrets, the laughs from the night before, no regard to memories, to be remembered or forgot, bin bags and bleach, outside the one word neon, big screened, endlessly metallic bars: city, dreams, faces, soul doesn’t matter they are treated the same.
the sunbed race jumps into life, wobbling men, still feeling effects from previous excess, teetering to their favourite spot, a human donkey, weighed down by towels, inflatables, credit card installments: for the package fresh pool wear and trainers that can never be worn down the pub, kids and the crushing expectation of family duty, as those sunbeds don’t get themselves, it’s a war that only the smart win, he tells himself, forgetting that it’s a charged phone that sees him here.
the queue for the breakfast buffet, a storm to welcome the day, a patchwork of reds, browns, pales, wearying pleads for kids to eat, the sausage is the same, no poached eggs, the bacon is fatty, tatties? for breakfast? weak tea in small cups pass the time until the all inclusive alcohol is served by the pool bar, where the sunbeds are claimed, same spot as yesterday.
a break from the routine when work is done you say, as the boarding passes are checked, safety demonstration watched and the plane taxis for take off, you’re just replacing one for another one.