Blood, Sweat & Tea, page 159 by Tom Reynolds
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eezing through gaps.
Don't look at the cars or you'll hit them I think to myself. I concentrate on the gaps between cars, some are very small. On an instinctive level I know which gaps I can make, and which ones I need to sit behind the cars, lights flashing, sirens blaring, until they make the gap wider.
How did I get here? I'm turning into the street I need - it's one way and the way ahead is clear. I'm glad, once more the parked cars make it barely wide enough for a single car.
I'm counting the door numbers - I'm looking for number 112. Odd numbers on the left, evens on the right...
...288... I speed up then slam on the brakes for a speed hump.
Again, again, again. I curse the people who think speed humps are a good idea...
...186... more humps - I pray no children are hiding between the cars...
...172, 162, 128...
I slow down. I'm trying to see the numbers, but some are small, and some are missing; while I'm doing this I'm trying not to drive into a parked car...
...112...
The door is open.
I stop. There is nowhere to park, so I'm blocking the road; it can't be helped.
I grab my bags and run into the house.
'Where is she', I ask. My eyes are taking in the house, is there anyone lying on the floor?
'It's me', comes the reply.
I breathe a sign of relief.
'I've had a cough for the past week and it hasn't gone yet', she tells me.
Another normal job for me then.
Not reflective of any one job, more a reflection on all my jobs
Knife Time (Well, Actually a Sword, But You Know What I Mean...)
This is one of a series of posts I wrote one week about the scourge of knives being used for violence.
I tend to walk the mean streets of London alone and unbothered by the thoughts of being attacked - I know that most violence is committed by people who know each other, and that truly random violence is rarer than most people think.
It was nearly three in the morning, we had al