The death-scent of fresh rubbish on the refuse barges that floated
up the Thames, choked; garbage lilies transferred the pollen of rotting
food and shredded news. Chords unfolded as street musician Steve's
seemingly stringless acoustic guitar poured narcotic hymns under the bridge where blank eyes stared like saucers, containing the dregs of spilt milk. Huddled under a scrap of cardboard and wrapped in a blanket of bad-newspaper, Brown-Teddy drained the last dregs of port wine, clutching the empty glass between his padless paw and broken thumb. The matted fur on his ears became colder and colder like blue-lipped
suicide on a Sunday, but he was listening to a conversation and dared not cover them least he should miss a single word. In the slight
shadows of the fire outside the cardboard hut next door two faceless men were talking of the future. I suppose you think that homeless
people don't think of such things but since word of imminent eviction to make room for a new cinema complex had floated into the bullring's
cardboard city, the usual cider-glazed twinkle in old John's eyes had somewhat diminished. Cardboard city had been his home since the
mid-eighties when the fires and fights and laughter and begging spots and urine-drenched alleyways had been shared with two hundred fellow
nomads, and though less than thirty of these gutter-yuppies with their poor-man's grime cosmetics now remained, they had no desire to roam
again. Most like old John were clinging onto this home where their hearts whilst wandering lost had rested. Young John was more resigned
to their fate. "Its us against Lambeth council," he said nodding at the eviction order which gave them just twenty-eight days to leave and
threw some more orange-box plinths onto the fire.
Brown-Teddy listened, searching desperately for a clue. His mission was different. He'd arrived in London just one week ago searching for his
owner. He missed her so much it pained him right through his stuffing. Everyone grows
up, moves on, works but he was sure that if he could just see her again she would make him part of her life. With only a half bottle of port, a
small blanket and an A-Z, he had stopped in the bullring, not knowing where else to go, where in this city Judith could be. Street musician
Steve still strumming strings, pushing his purring sounds like a pimp, wandered over to the fire sporting a haircut like a bass clef. Such sad
fragments of melody and Brown -Teddy began to find an accompanying stream of words composing themselves in his plastic head, a last
vestige of his drunken day.
The fire began to dwindle, and in the light elixir blended from embers and dusk, young John's beaten sillouette cloaked Brown-Teddy as he
slept for his first vision filled night in the capital city.
