Half a day
Half a day
By Hywel Latimyr
Tsmugi wanders around the streets surrounding Paddington station, a ritual she seems all so complacent with in recent weeks. She likes to watch as the strange people who also seem to just wander the streets on London like herself potter around with their lives. She notices the man on his phone, with his hands-free device of course, waffling something or rather about plans for a party, with a coffee in had as you do. The old lady across the street, lecturing who Tsmugi assumed was her grandson, about how he should not forget about his studies just because this English woman took his heart. She spoke with a strong accent, which Tsmugi assumed was from somewhere in the West Indies. The lad, however, spoke like how you would hear Londoners speak in American movies. Then there was the little girl and her mother, the girl excited to be getting on a train. She could not have been any older than four, maybe five years old. Her mother just looked tired, as most mothers to young children do.
