At the Borek this morning or afternoon the number 3 trundled up. I thought it was the 8 with the part of the number indent missing - a torn squiggle, an eight with a piece bitten off by a spider.
You never can tell what trams will turn up. They have the John Paul the Second tram. They have a tram where you are tricked and when you embark a waitress asks you for cash and a charity box is swung your way. Photographs of sorry-looking dogs adorn the wall, the canine melancholy ushering you on your way guiltily. The tram is skeletal as if it was a dream.
And now, this number 3. That annonuces stations that don't exist. But no-one seems worried. Everybody knows the secret of the Number 3 tram, except me. I wonder whether to keep going and see where I end up.
But I play safe and get off at the Rondo.
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