...Anything except sticking me in a goddam cemetery. People coming and putting a bunch of flowers on Sunday, and all that crap. Who wants flowers when you're dead? Nobody.
J.D Salinger, Catcher in the Rye
Asking for another ten minutes. The forest greenery of the front gardens, motorbikes on HP, and the bushes doused in a haze of early seventies council house memory. But tonight, Matthew, the sky is bitter and as angry with itself as I am....
Walk across the bridge over the old Caledonian railway line - spiritualised by the greenery of the trees, and feel the emptiness of this current town. The one which exists at the moment. Someone has shown it some photographs of what it used to be like - and no wonder it's pissed off. Polarised and seared by the heat of what used to be - the area has nowhere left to sizzle and buzz but in the ancient past. By the gate house at the cemetery - the keeper peeps his head up from the TV as I pass his front window quietly, but with Alice Cooper intent, holding a sword of an umbrella and a Virgin Atlantic baseball cap; looking as furtive and suspicious as a boy who's thinking about sniffing some glue.
