lost my trousers
i woke up this morning in a strange bedroom. can't remember a thing about last night. bedroom's odd. there's hundreds of pictures on the wall of peoples heads. all shapes and sizes. reminded me of the beatles song 'penny lane' with the barber-shop, all the heads he'd had the pleasure to have known and all that

i was wearing my 'pogues' - streams of whiskey t-shirt, which i can't remember putting on yesterday, and my pants and socks. my shoes are over by the door and my coat's hung up nicely but there's no sign of my strides anywhere

i cross to the window, have a look outside. i'm upstairs. looks like a nice residential area to be fair. there's a lorry grumbling down the street, binmen trying to keep up, trying to lug 10 bags at a time so they can get the job done quick and get down the cafe for 7am, day finished. they're throwing bags from all angles, over hedgerows, the roofs of cars, spilling rubbish all over the street and not giving a hugo if truth be told

search everywhere but cant' find my strides so i open the door and shouts down. no answer.

i step out on the landing. open another door. there's a fat man and women in bed together. they must weigh about 20 stone a pop. all the covers were off them so i copped for the lot.

who were these people? more to the point ... what am i doing in their fucking house? and even more to the point that that ... where's my strides?

i leave that room and do a quick search through the rest of the upstairs. i'm feeling a bit out of sorts. another bedroom - nothing in there but more pictures of peoples heads. what the fuck is with this head thing? then a bathroom - containing the smallest bath you ever saw. i can't help thinking of the fat couple on the bed trying squeeze one anothers vast bulks into the tub on bath-night. nearlly puke up right there and then.

trousers? where the fuck are my trousers?

downstairs living room. bog standard tv-and video, fake leather sofa, frayed carpet. the good news is there's not a picture of an head in sight.

just tacky pictures of dogs playing pool

no trousers?

out to the kichen. nothing.

i'm about to give up and make do with wrapping myself in a towel and calling a cab when i catch sight of them through the kitchen window. in the backyard. hanging on the washing line, flapping in the wind. for a second if feel sorry for them. all alone out there in a strange garden. i need a coffee.

i unbolt the backdoor, grab my strides, (they were still a little damp) whip them on, and then i'm away on my toes to the nearest train station which turns out to be upminster on the district line.

upminster? what was i doing in upminster?

upminster was miles from where i lived. in fact. i don't think i'd ever been to upminster before that moment.

i got on the train went home and went to bed