Words and their special meanings.

Some words mean more to me than to a dictionary. Any dictionary. Dictionaries don’t care about words, they just do their job because they have no choice. They can only mumble dusty definitions, and have forgotten how joyful words can be.

Stale.

I smell warm fragrances, it is the smell of nesting and nibbling. I hear the flood of a corn tide. I’m wearing a black cap and am a student in London again, working part time in a cinema. I remember walking on the wooden boards of West India Quay and the hollow bounce of my steps on them, the warmth of a late summer, ironing red shirts forever, the boosy smell of the DLR on the way back from evening shifts. I remember the half tons deliveries of sweets, the quiet time to myself, shelving up alone for hours in the stock rooms, writing expiry dates and taking care of rotations. I remember walking up and down the escalators all day long and realizing it made me fitter by the week. Great times. I remember the black trousers which only exist in my memory now that I’ve thrown them away. I remember a customer complaining that her popcorn was stale. I believed it was spelt ‘still’ for a very long time.