I was dwelling on two bins entrenched side-by-side on George St. Why dwelling on the bins? Well, in the city it’s best to dwell on things below head level, to avoid the horrible mistake of making eye-contact with a rushing anybody. It’s terrible exchanging that anxious animal glance between people in the city, herbivores agitated by the crowd and the smell and the speed. So: dwelling on the bins. Funny bins, placed so close together when the block to either side was decidedly free of rubbish recepticles. Fitingly, outside the station there was also a clutch of postboxes; another utility characterised by its loneliness. Commuters were hurling their butts into the curved metal container at the top intended for this purpose, being too busy of course to stub them properly. The bins were both spouting smoke vigorously. Both combustions were uniformly affected by the wind blowing from the Quay and sweeping up the funnel of glass and metal of George St, so from these two bins, huddling together and immobile in the isolation and compartmentised hurry of those busy, busy city folk, spilled out twin dancers that would waft and twirl in perfect synchronisation, oblivious to the background roar and sharp air-brake sounds of buses.
