In a bingo hall, near my old school, the outlines of people no longer around are visible at a specific time each day. It’s just after tea. Mid-afternoon. Tele and biscuits while the woman next door shaves her legs in full view of us kids on the brink of discovering the meaning behind our favourite dirty words. My eye is pressed firmly against the keyhole, and I see things I’m told are not real. There’s a virus. It showed the world how to wash its hands. People bought shit loads of toilet roll to help them save their shitty souls. We ourselves are a virus; a virus with shoes. Neither, suede, nor blue. For a moment, just before the late rerun of Neighbours came on, everyone lost themselves, but all I could think about was how beautiful those outlines looked upon the walls of that bingo hall. My tongue is covered in dust. I smell like a dog blanket. She wears black tights with eyeliner that reminds me of the band that played on the Titanic as it sank into the maelstrom of history on that cold so cold April night of nineteen twelve. Van Gogh had syphilis. Picasso, a misogynist. Pollock a prick when it came to his thirst for the bottle and Drake a sullen chap with a craving for Mary Jane and winding country lanes. His outlines are out there somewhere too. At dusk, on the corner of a street with no name. Beneath a tree with leaves as golden as Uncle Ben’s most exquisite basmati rice. The shelves and cupboards are empty. The trees, so bare. Apples and pears, and the bells of St Clements. I come and go. One of these days, I must find a well and cover it.