Bristol banality

Four days a week I leave my flat in the small hours for an early workout. The city is still beneath a bored night sky which shows little interest in the dawn. Only one or two bright planets manage to wriggle through the sickly yellow street lamps. The streets and sidewalks are shiny from the rain that only stopped a little while ago, and will return shortly. The city is still, and yet there is life scuttling about like so many invertebrates whose rock has been upturned. A handful of pigeons bicker over a scrap of naan bread. The pile of sick that is the rest of the kebab is spread just meters away -- evidence of student activity. Lorries lumber up the steep streets to make their deliveries, and come barrelling down again moments later. It's a game with the drivers; who can get down Park Street the fastest? Grumpy shop-keepers and restaurant-owners have to be at work to meet the deliveries. A girl in a denim mini and slouchy boots pushes her messy blonge hair out of her face and hugs her corduroy jacket closer around her body. She is slinking home after a lager-induced love dance. She tells herself never again, it was a mistake, but I know I'll see her again on Saturday morning, maybe walking from the other direction this time. But where have all the tramps gone? In the bustling eveing you can't swing a dead cat without hitting a bum, knocking you up for spare change. Where are they now? They know the hiding places, the secret places. They watch the pigeons and lorries and sluts and me from the shadows, the voids left by the sulfurous municiple lighting where they snuggle up to the rubbish bins.