Irish & Wild

The alarm rings, she wakes with a disgruntled moan and turns it off. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she sits on the edge of her bed, a twittering can be heard from outside. She gazes sorrowfully at the bright orange light beaming in from between the baby blue curtains, and with a sigh she lifts herself onto her feet and makes her way downstairs to the bathroom for a shower. Click!

“No hot water again?… How wonderful. My fur is going to be oily… I can just tell, today is going to be bloody fantastic.”

After dragging herself through her usual miserable routine, and a meagre slice of dry toast, she stands at her front door and takes a deep breath. Peering through the glass she sees the city, hazed by a foul, filthy smog. With one last deep breath, she unlocks the door and steps through, shivering as a chilling gust cuts through her, nearly lifting her grey pleated skirt. Down the steps and along the same narrow dirt path she she’s been wearing away at for 17 years, gazing around at the tents and caravans that surround her own. She passed by a large traditional gypsy caravan, pristine and intricately painted.

“Good morning, Daddy…” she called, answered by only a faint howl in the wind.

Looking away from the hills on the horizon, she stands and stares at clear-cut clouds hovering over the city. Strange how they never pass the boundaries, they never leave. Sadly, she must make her way into the city once again, walk beneath those dreary dirty clouds, in a filthy crime-ridden city.

“Here I go again…”

http://irishandwild.atspace.co.uk/