The Carnival is Over

The bounce and pageantry is winding down. Cuba Street is slipping down to is busy streets, jostling crowds and zany shop doorways. I step out of a cafe and

The final glow of the evening in an Italian cafe. “I remember you from some years back.” – the owner. Motorscooters, Italian of course discussed. The scooter has hatched into an Italian motorbike.

Next day, Monday, the serious surge of traffic. And Wellington drizzle.

An afternoon wander.

The bouquinerie is buried with the above, and more of the above, more ancient than modern. A bloke with his bestest anarchic clothes has been poured into a chair in the corner. He has that look of the bookshop ‘Do not disturb’. Maybe he never leaves that chair. Another, younger and more vital fellow eagerly gnaws his way into some sort of convenient pay and scamper delicacy.

Dark, firm, slightly shaky lettering grimly announces the hideous outcomes for those parchment pilferers who become engraved for evermore on The Security Camera. All the forces of Satan plus the Cuba Street Constabulary are watching, watching and waiting.

Books, side by side, neighbours for how long ~ are silent as I brightly thank the anarchist and I slip to the Wellington drizzle.