We all shed advice, like loads on a carriageway, discarding our situational thoughts onto the floor, Five Live travel news. The bridge could be seen from the window during this and on occasion, intermittent blue lights and dull emergencies raced past, glistening in the miserable weather.
Somewhere, however, it all got lost. Sentence structure bloated and etiquette fell, knocked from breath by urgency. The cursing began and the pointing followed, dogmas were outlayed and conscience disclosed with aggression and imprecision. The fire began to fade, the lights glared at points with electrical surges, a sympathetic wiring providing its own fallacy, the ether of healthy debate.
And in the midst of all of this, one girl took authority, the troubled girl. Buoyed by her admission, a secret fear revealed and deflated, streaming with the confidence of surety and acceptance, she rested her head against the vertical wood cladding, the musky brown of age, and crossed her feet, stretching.
She instigated and beamed.