Paul J Penton – Songwriter

Town Hall – Daily Writing – July 16

The air is a mixture of unsettled dust and the impregnation of decades of pollution and humanity. The floor wants to applaud the air but it’s trapped, boards polished and re-polished echo footsteps of technicians as if you’re in a canyon. Gantries of over head lights resemble an operating theatre, curtains and blacks hide panelled walls in a skirt of modesty. The stage starts to come alive with players, a few violins, a double bass. Lines of rehearsal scratch their way toward sweetness. Blocks of plastic backed chairs in sets of four are being linked together the metal tie sends a chink through the air. Seat covers seem to be baked on. Pieces of fabric bubble out.

A hot black tea from the cheap place across the road still steams hot in my hand the paper container doubled to insulate it, still, the heat leaks through and lasers my hand on this cold winter day. The lip of the cup, gingerly meets mine and the tide of tea and the foreshaw of my tongue lap against one another in submission. All is OK, not too hot for this well trained tongue. The steps at the back room of the hall definitely smell of time and decay and age. It’s trapped in there…….