Pissing

There he was bold as brass pissing onto the pavement. Not in broad daylight but in the semi-light of the street lit early morning dark. He was talking as he pissed to a girl who was huddled under a white jumper against the rain under the eaves of the Prom shelter. He let out a laugh as the arc of yellow continued to spring from his flies. It had taken me a moment to work out what it was. It looked rather beautiful. And then I realised. Was I shocked? Outraged? No, I was curious, even a little delighted at his audacity, for there is still a police watch outside the hotel just 500 yards away. He was drunk clearly. And I too like to pee in the open air. Is it the same for men? Probably not. Peeing makes the male organ rather innocuous I often think. That’s all it is, a peeing tube. That is all. All that fuss over such a small thing.

I tried to keep the anxiety at bay as I walked, or at least under a leash. Let it be, I chanted to myself as I sat still for half an hour last night. Let it be, I said to myself as I walked, as each little potential worry rose up to unsettle me. Let it be.

It rained. They’d promised a dry night. So be it. I went and got the big umbrella from the car. Listen to the pitter patter on its taut canopy, rather lovely. And then later as I stood for a moment at the top of the little hill I heard the drip of raindrops falling of the leaves of the shrubs and trees. There is never complete silence, there are always the hums of generators, the clunk of heating systems, the dripping of downpipes, the piping of oystercatchers and the rush of the tide. Sitting last night in silence I could hear the pulse of my blood in my head. I sat in the sun, the sun coming through my studio window and became almost nothing. For a moment. Just nothing.

Will it all be done soon? Will there be peace then? Will she let us go?