Standing in a chippy on a Friday night with the rain pissing down outside, the world is drowned but I feel okay. Should’ve stayed in and saved some money, but I wanted my fix of junk food. If I could, I’d live off sausages and chips like a fat kid would, forever and ever, amen. One of those fat kids, y’know, that are too fat to even fit in their pushchair. I’d easily starve myself of good food, wouldn’t even have to try, but I’d never starve myself of good love. Not intentionally, anyhow. The chippy’s sterile. Like a room in a hospital. People come and go. Shadows. Phantoms. Some loud guy wanders in and looks to start a fight. He’s too boisterous for my liking, and I imagine sticking a plastic fork in his neck and watching the blood spray everywhere as he makes crimson snow angels at my feet. Smiling, I step outside to give it some more thought over a cigarette. On the gum-splattered pavement, wet sunshine dances as my memories of oil on paint play ring-a-ring-a-roses all about me. The arena I work in is now one of words, but back in the day, I played with paint and felt like I could walk on water. It’s a pity I ran out of steam when it came to a life of colour, but in black ink, I found a path leading to millions of others. Smoking until my order’s ready, I waltz back in and grab my bag of fried delights, and as the streets take my aching feet on a journey to twilight, the salty chips on my tongue make me feel as big and as small as I need to be.