Yarn 11 | Brick lane
Walk with the narrator on a six minute stroll down one of London’s most famous streets. You’ll meet its inhabitants and visitors, all to a thumping music beat.
Listen here:
I’m walking out of work with a tipsy smirk
Four free beers and one I had to ditch
It’s compensation for us staying late on a pitch
That’s why we stay after on Friday in spite
But I’m determined to have an early night
I often boast that my commute is shorter than most
I live at the other end of Brick Lane
In one of those flats for the young and urbane
It’s a six minute stroll down a straight street
if I’m not held up by those I meet
Walking down Brick Lane each day
is like taking in a promenade play
Early mornings, Evenings and weekends
Each show views the street through an alternate lens
On weekends I’m woken by street sellers wailing
Walkways are warped with waves of tourists
Who haggle with stall vendors and vinyl purists
The early morning show is more subdued
Office workers cue for coffee and fidget with their phones
And the odd night before straggler stagger to their homes
Evenings are manic
A maelstrom of meandering men and women
Walking, talking, drinking and grinning
Curry house representatives jostle for my attention
No thanks. I live just down there, I mention
But the offers keep coming
One free drink. One free poppadum
I’m moving on.
Two free drinks. Two poppadum
I’ve already gone
I pass the big blue eyed leaflet distributor on the corner
She’s bored, bald and beautiful
I’m distracted so I get caught by the kebab man
Excuse me sir, he says
Do you want to make a donation to the donor kebab fund?
He does this every day if I don’t dodge him
You got me yesterday I say
So I did mate. I’ll be on my way
And off he goes without delay
Stuck in his own Groundhog day
I’m halfway there
I step around the tiny shiny canisters of air
Thrown on the ground like discarded silverware
Sitting on the pavement is the man with a sign
It reads ‘Punch me in the face for five pounds’
He already looks like he’s done nine rounds
Hello gorgeous
Shouts the woman on crutches
She’s all dressed up. Not a hair out of place
But drug addiction takes its toll on her face
Buy me a drink I hear her ask
Not tonight I say I can’t
Fuck you then. You fucking prick
Gesturing with her walking stick
New shops on brick lane are sure signs of gentrification
They pop up and down in a constant rotation
Shops for bow ties, ukuleles and items I’d consider immaterial
And one café that just sells breakfast cereal
Just a few more strides and I’ll be home for the night
I walk by the phone booth
A man bursts out wearing a suit
I overhear his plea to a pedestrian plodding past
Please. He says. Have you got a few pence?
I really need to phone my wife.
My mobile has lost its battery life
The good Samaritan hands over their cash
The man slams the door closed with a crash
He’s a phony. I see him here every evening.
Is what he does thieving or merely deceiving?
I leave him to it. I’m not Intervening.
I’m a couple of feet from reaching my flat
When a woman in distress crosses my path
In broken English she shouts
Help. Hospital. Man bleeding
I hesitate at first but end up ceding
A cyclist stands with his bike in the street
His arm is bloodied like a raw piece of meat
I’ve a had an accident he says
Can you give me some cash for a cab
I need urgent assistance
The hospital is quite a distance
I’ve seen that very same gash before
Not two weeks ago outside my door
It’s been two weeks and you’re still hurt?
How many times since then have you hit pay dirt?
The man jumps on his bike and peddles out of sight
The woman looks shocked at how quickly the hurt man took flight
I’ve run the gauntlet and arrived at my destination
I’m thinking about my bed and sleep in anticipation
My flat mates stop me on the stairs
We’re off out for a drink. One of them declares
There’s a new bar open down the road
Why don’t you come with us he elbowed
I was determined to have an early night, stay in, sleep and dream
But after that dash home now I’m in the mood to blow off some steam
Let’s go, I say
We walk back out on the cobbled terrain
Who knows what’ll happen tonight on Brick lane.
END.
This has been a story for yarnpodcast.com
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