A Dusty Post

London feels dense with pollution and Saharan dust this evening. As Leftwing Idiot, Will and I made our way back to the castle we noticed how the streetlights were lighting the hazy air. Predictably my tics had something to say about this (as they do about pretty much anything involving lamp-posts).

“Lamp-posts, stop sucking up to the dust.”
“Lamp-posts, imagine if you were stuck in a sand dune.”
“Lamp-posts, stop dancing with the dust.”

Just now, when I got into bed, more lamp-post tics popped out, this time targeted at a specific lamp-post – the one I see from my bedroom window – with whom my tics have a surreal and erratic relationship.

“Dusty lamp-post, are you the cousin of Dusty Bin?”
“Lamp-post, get the pigeons to fit an extractor fan.”
“Operation Desert Lamp-post.”
“Lamp-post, don’t do any strenuous exercise.”
“Lamp-post, you’re dustier than a derelict talcum powder factory.”

With that I wished the lamp-post goodnight, and closed the blind. I very much hope the city, and its lamp-posts, will be less dusty in the morning.

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