Today was my first day back at work after a few days off. It was chaos, it always is. Work was tiring and after I finished up, I walked into the bright cold lights of a Tesco Express. I rummaged through the reduced to clear items, overly adventurous yogurt flavours and rotting bags of salad. Nothing that caught my imagination.
I rang Oonagh and she told me off her plans with friends to go out in Stourbridge, which in my tired and caffeine deprived state my brain registered as Starrybridge, much to Oonagh's amusement. I like the sound of that though, Starrybridge, I began to daydream to imagine what Starrybridge is like. On Starrybridge it's always night time, not night night, twilight, a dark rich blue, and in the stars stand out like they do when I was 17 standing in a field with a can of warm Fosters in my hand, bright white dots. Starrybridge is not so much a place, it's a monument, a feet of engineering which would make Brunnel weep, a long, strong, black and white metallic bridge creeping off into the distant, a bridge between our world and some forgotten world, built by a man or a woman, or maybe something else entirely long before, anyone had dreamt up men and women, long before anyone had dreamt up us.
Starrybridge hangs between the imagination and reality, people have crossed it, but they've never re-turned, they've never even existed, sometimes you might dream off them. I imagine that this bridge has a watcher, all the important bridges have watchers, he dresses as a gentleman would dress, all coats tails and top hats. One night perhaps something gets over the bridge, something that was never meant to cross something uncontrollable, something mysterious, something dangerous.
"Do you have a clubcard?" Asked the bored checkout worker, and it was back to the real world.
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