Muso (Last of Winter)

  

The guy who rocked up with his bags outside Scarlet played an energetic air guitar on first landing, a big blast of some kind strumming low on the groin. Cock rock superlative. Following which some refreshment was needed. A milk choc it looked like, brought over to the opposite table in the alcove, where from a screw-top container he spooned what must have been sugar three times into the bottle. A stem of that length extracted from one of the bags was of the kind for supping with the devil. Out on the other side of the shadow line quaffing, one hand on the pavement tree trunk, he reminded of Arthur sunning himself after the winter morning chill indoors. In this case the man no doubt had a good deal more to contend with overnight. On the other side of the street at the bus stop, where he had carted his 6-7 bags, an early lunch was taken, in the form of a thick sandwich cut on the diagonal and tightly wrapped in paper bag. A brief juggle/what-to-do? before he settled one half of the item on the aluminium top of the waste bin. Perfectly coherent he had been five minutes before remarking on the young magpie or mudlark that had come down onto the Scarlet pavement. The claws on its feet were not growing, juvenile form, but torn off, most likely in a fight. Man had seen the same in other birds, seagulls particularly.