“Cityaaaam… Cityaaaaaam… City yam”
As I get closer the blurred words make sense. It’s more of a question. Oh gosh - she’s talking to me!
City yam?
(pauses, repeats, a hopeful tone)
City A.M?
Oh god, she’s assessed me as the type to read it…
I smile gently to signal silently "No thank you, not today" I won’t be reading about the latest in stocks, shares and city deals... though I should I guess... Argh. I feel slightly embarrassed: I opt to lunge for Stylist and Shortlist without fail every week, but City A.M? Weeeeell, I’m a bit more reserved. Meh. I can take it or leave it really.
But then I feel a pang of guilt.
Did she read the "Thank you" part of my silent "no thank you"?
Does she now despise me for that extra 25g of paper I should now be bearing instead of her?
This smiling girl must be weary – she’s been on her feet since 6 am, performing nothing short of a continuous 4 hour aerobic workout! Rocking back and forth, side to side, reaching into our paths non intrusively, with a silent but assured “don’t worry about reaching for me, Ill reach out to you” motto, she continues. Left, right, left swoop, right swoop… swiping one paper away to a discerning reader, and deftly folding another simultaneously.
“I’m gonna make a change… gonna feel real good… gonna make a difference…heh!
Ah Michael Jackson… Lawd love him” I say, inspired.
I turn back.
Suddenly I’ve got a real appetite for yam.
 |
| A Cityam |
Shame the Cityam gets waisted in a wealthy city. Building sized yams would flourish in a city in need.
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