The Trolley
Perhaps I should first explain about the kind of place in which I live. It is one of those old seaside towns the tackiness balanced out with carefully manicured gardens, a strong whiff of history and quaint Victorian monoliths of houses. And the road I live in...the gigantic Victorian houses divided, subdivided, sectioned, smaller and smaller to become flats or bedsits. This is the lower scale of the areas near the sea. Much lower scale. Dirty paintwork and flaky bricks outnumber the neat and tidy houses. So, a few days ago, stepping out of my basement flat, it doesn't surprise at all to see an abandoned trolley outside one of the houses a couple of doors down. "Some places will collect them now, if you ask." I said. "Really?" my companion replied. "Yes. But," I said as we got closer, "I think it is a Tesco's trolley and they don't do that. I bet Waitrose do though" And that was it, the start of the trolley's journey. It may be a slightly run down street but people are still people and have their pride. So I wasn't surprised to notice the next day that the trolley had moved so it was leaning against the wall outside my flat. I couldn't help feeling slightly put out that someone had moved the trolley there. Then I wondered who had brought the trolley back in the first place? The house full of students? The middle aged couple? The woman with the small, black, tightly permed hair poodle? The young, constantly harassed looking mother? I left the trolley where it was and continued on my way. This morning it had moved again much to my relief. It was situated outside the most decent house in the whole road. You know the sort of house - the sort you would buy if you had the money. The original Victorian house had obviously been flattened in the war and replaced with a neat and tidy 1950's type house with a proper drive, off road parking and massive blossom trees in the garden. I wondered then, where might the trolley travel next? And now I cannot wait for tomorrow's walk to the bus stop, up the steps, outside the flat, down the concrete tinged green alleyway. I cannot wait to open my noisy black gate, and look up the road to see where the trolley has travelled to. I will imagine who has used it last while trampling on dead blossom petals, avoiding patches of dried vomit, blood and the small dead rat in the gutter. | ||||||