I am in America. It is night, and I leave a house somewhere in the suburbs of a small town. I need to go the petrol station (gas station?) on the corner - or rather, the large shop that is attached to it. I look at the coins I have in my pocket. Is that a dollar? I think a can of diet-coke is 99c but I am not sure. I hear shouts and cries from across the street. Teenage noises. Some kind of criminal youth. I hurry my pace to reach the gas station shop.
The shop is large and has a number of different sections. I want to buy a pair of trousers or jeans. To get into the section I must pass by two security guards, one of whom is Sarah B who I used to work with. I am pleased to see her and we talk awhile.
I am at the airport leaving America. I am talking to one of the customs officers there. She tells me that I will be unable to bring my glasses through customs. I am not sure why. I realise, with a growing sense of annoyance, that there is no way round this. I must leave my glasses behind. Perhaps I can post them to myself in England?
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment