Half ten, dozen people on the chairs and others at the self-help
PCs and phone booths. Young uniformed Sikh inside the front door stands
security in neat black slacks, twin pocketed shirt with epaulettes. Sans head
wrap possibly not Sikh; somewhere within the region. Neat razored cut; tight
ponytail like a topknot. A face from the past impossible to place entering,
contemporary couple years junior perhaps. From the mouth and jaw suggestion of Viddy Richardson from
primary school and the football club. His younger
brother Earl perhaps. A Westie lad all the hallmarks; basically on the rails,
health the issues now. Numerous migrants. Chinese middle-aged pair were outta
the blocks prematurely when the name Giuseppe was called. On the approach to
the Info chap behind his motorized stand, who managed all-comers with aplomb
and courtesy, the pair had called an English speaker on their phone. At the
desks within they presumably had someone appropriate. Old Bill likewise jumped
at his name as if he might lose his place being tardy, still nimble on his
feet. Migrants over-represented, strugglers and plodders. Security was armed with
an ear-piece, at entry he had been circling his corner gesticulating
theatrically. Some of the poor punters mistaking him for the go-to man were
duly obliged with directions. An old porky seated on his stroller behind wore a
nautical white skipper’s cap fringed with laurel. Painless in the event,
fifteen minutes certainly outside expectations. Big tick to the system. The
rain had made the difference, keeping numbers down. Truly cold winter; a few
sun-lit days earlier in the week thought had been the season was all over mid-July before it had begun. And confirmation at exit. Having taken a chair in his
corner that reminded of the dunce’s punishment in primary school, the Security
man nodding to the 7 ½ hours of his watch: the entire shift crossing the four
or five carpet squares under the fluro overhead in his corral. Commiserations
were met with embarrassed smiling and nodding some more.
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