A Song A Day For A Year

I’m sat in a south london pub, a wetherspoons surrounded by dreadlocked women and dying men. No one cares about the riots here, no one cares about anything. I cant hold a conversation with someone for long without wanting to retreat into solitude. I find peopole like to either discuss the most unknown literature or political development to which I find myself on my android tapping away for answers or possible conversation starters. Either way by the time im done surfing they’re done drinking and im abandoned at the sticky pub table. The other end of the spectrum cant stop running their mouths on who should win x-factor, in fact divide the sexes and you create far worse compositions for this kind of cadaver. Guys tend to back on about who is ‘shaggable’ and girls spend a unique amount of time discussing the artists attire before reassuring themselves that they have better features than those stars they’ve spent countless hours staring at a glass box admiring. Well im out of the house, its a big step for me, but I need to calm the tide with an ex. Speaking of which she’s here and she’s coming over. They say to act natural in awkward situations, but I think the word natural doesnt quite fit the bill. She sits opposite me, her big white teeth are the first thing I see. Her hair is bigger than usual, framing her face in the way that makes her look like one of the ewoks from star wars hiding in a hedge. Except she.’s never seen Star Wars and has never seemed bothered by that fact. She does look good though, which is horrible. She tells me how her families been, her pet bird Rocky and the fact she has come across a large amount of money in the past couple of months. Then I notice it, her long sleeved top was covering it before, but obviously she made the error of sliding them up because she hid it seconds after rolling them up. “Its nothing” she tries to say making awkward sentences like “Actually it is cold in here”. If it was cold in here