We whirl and twirl in randomness.
The ice cream van begins its regular journey from Bexleyheath down to Shoreditch. The heat has brought it out. Sniffing out youth it trawls the streets - an amateur child-catcher - luring kids to its garish door but no further. The owner has Victoria Park in his sights, "that's where they'll be", but an accident on the Hackney Road slows him down. A pizza delivery man - young, Croatian - on his back, leg splayed at an impossible angle. He knew the roads, but a kid jumped out from behind a car- drawn by the mournful tinny sound of the ice cream van. This will never be established- and even if it was, you can't blame a tune.
The kid misses his ice cream (icy in the morgue); the biker will not miss the child. Can you blame him? He will lose his job, "I can't employ a cripple Zafich, can I!" and eventually leave the country; a small rivulet of life diverted elsewhere. Meanwhile, the Ice Cream van plows on - a poor swimmer in life's random pool- thrashing in the centre lane, oblivious to the waves and spray it throws up.
11 August 2012
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