Writer . Editor . Author
This morning I forgot about the game. The game where I spot Mr and Mrs Cole first before they spot me as we walk in opposing directions to work on Market Street. Most of the time I lose, because I am either looking at my feet or listening to music.
Once I had Dave Emmett shouting a sermon in my ear and just got totally distracted in the word of God as I walked.
But this morning I was too busy looking out for the cleaners in the high street stores. I was trying to spot if they were all of African descent. For the record, the cleaners in Miss Selfridge and H&M are.
There is nothing wrong in being a cleaner and/or being black. I am just trying to spot a trend. I saw the cleaner in Miss Selfridge hoovering the carpet next to a rack of frilly short skirts. It was this pleated tipped tier skirt (left) and it costs £32.
The skirts were arranged by the entrance of the store, which clearly means it is a skirt of the new season. I saw the bald black man in his 40s next to this rack of skirts, and my eyes wondered at such a picture of contrast.
Who was this man and what was this skirt? I thought about the people that would buy such a skirt, and thought about this man that was cleaning up the carpets for the people that would buy such a skirt.
Their lifestyles were incompatible, yet they existed side by side. It was as though they needed each other. Without the skirt, the man has no job. Without the man, the skirt has low sales value.
I looked at the skirt, and I looked at the man. I mourned at modern life.