Song of the wail

On the day: 
28/05/2012 


On the way: 
The bus pulls up. 
It's a wrong number. 
No one stirs, not the fading redhead sitting in the shelter, dry curls falling onto freckled shoulders. Not the indistinct entity behind the shelter. Not the chap in the navy blue corduroy cap standing in the slim shade of the telephone pole to protect his eyes from the sun. No move towards the welcoming open door. 
So it starts to close. 
And then the high-pitched ululation from the laundry, followed by a young man running for the bus: Oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo. Not the kind of siren to stop traffic, it's soft and slowed-up, its batteries in the red. And maybe not running so much as trotting, on tiptoe, as if barefoot across warm (but not hot) sands, or through shallow water,  nothing more than a puddle but still his paper bags are held high as if to avoid splashing. 
Oo-oo-oo-oo. Whose attention does he expect to capture with that kind of ineffectual wail? 
But the driver, let's call him Hawkeye, spots him. The door opens again and the siren singer gradually hops on board and is passed with all the urgency of a sunny Monday morning yawn. 


On the pod: 
29 - Gin Blossoms 


On the front page: 
Football - it is a matter of life and death, says Sol (Metro)