I was in London today, and I was walking down the street.
A flowing, silk coat passed me by.
As cream, as cream could ever be.
If cream itself knew how cream that cream was, it would sue that silk coat on impersonation charges.
But cream itself knew nothing of such charges, or flowing, or silk.
Cream was the colour not of coats, of scarves, or suits, the sort of cream you’d take home to meet your parents.
If a cream could meet parents, or, anyone.
Cream was on the duvet.
A rustic duvet?
No.
A well-loved duvet?
No.
A malted, mottled, cream duvet, sheathed around a man, and it was, sheathed, sat on the corner of said street.
The cream on the duvet was dying.
It was green with moss.
It was orange with food.
It was yellow with sick.
And despite this, the cream coat still flowed by.
It didn’t notice the green, or the orange, or the yellow.
It just carried on by.
I think it was being worn by someone.
A woman, I think.
I couldn’t tell.
They didn’t stop by long enough to be seen.
Ryan Croughan is one of the unfortunate souls who keeps the Minor Spillage ship sailing. Sailing? Probably better to say paddling. As well as producing, he finds time to present and provide voiceovers. He also says he doesn't like the sound of his own voice. Bit odd really.
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