It’s a dark, wet, dreary rush hour commute home, on a slow moving bus. A thin film of steam coats the windows. Its just warm enough to make my collar stick to my neck or produce some exotic disease that will feed on patience and imagination. I’m about 10 metres too close to some schmuck mindlessly scraping his chin stubble against the artificial fibres of his once-shiny black coat.
The doors open and I’m on the pavement, drinking in the cool air.
This is my favourite shop. A One Stop Shop for a good range of quotidia. They do everything: cut your keys, fix your shoes, hem your pants, and rent you a washing machine.
And now they’re expanding into whimsy. Of all things quickly antiquating -a photo booth now stands outside. Four poses for $3. Pictures processed and air dried, while you wait.