The walk to Borek Fałecki tube station (one of Krakow's most London-like walkways) meanders from my flat to a scurry of paving slabs opposite a chunk of sheds with football (Wisla hooligans-Cracovia hooligans- Anty-Juden) (The graffiti follows me through to Owoce and other vegetation)
Anty-Juden. Big blue murals of Anty-Juden and windowboxes of fresh violetowa boxes on the racks of ledges, stretching on for a Cracow-suburbia. The road bends around and I'm driving my car past the cut, dishevelled holes gaping, the elderly residents seeing the cold of the real Autumn and have disappeared.
Even the sky-rise turns less mellow and acknowledges defeat as there is no show now. Just the temperature gauge dipping remorselessly and cavernously into the ground. The path stretches shamefully, delightedly, the all-night drinkers have cast their potion and sweet-smelling rags on the fringes of my little suburbia.
Round the last drinkers bench and pinched old people, everyone old or if young then looking old is up at this moment. At the market long strips of silver hang wispily and cardboard turrets sit flakily and half-broodingly. I like the market-point. No-one buys anything. No one is bankrupt. Everyone as happy as can be expected when they know it's getting colder.
The sky at 6.59. A bruise taken as a picture and photo-shopped lazily and unimpressively but I'm happy to see it displayed badly because it's free. The Solvay block of shopping centre rises in the background and the blue trails of trams skirt skittishly and flirtatiously around a stern glockenspiel of a racetrack. It's cold as I get the work-tram and my walk is Autumnal.
