So today right... and I haven't been writing but I have been jumping, travelling, getting on and off more taxis than you can ever imagine. Green ones, red ones, blue ones, white ones white ones... I am coming home from Balfour, just around the corner from our Lyndhurst Bookshop warehouse, where I am now putting in some time for being such a great guy, anyway. I get through Noord Rank (what a story Noord Street Rank is... I must let you in) and make my way to Bree. At Bree Street Rank I'm crossing the road to the rank and I look right and there is an ambulance with flashing lights. I think nothing of it. I move along, keeping my distance, keeping my eyes on the ground (change, remember...) and I get to the Cresta line. Fucking cops. Everywhere. Not metros. Cops. Badges. Bastards. I'm like, HoKay I'll just get in here then... and I sit next to this cute little black number and ask, what's with all these cops. They are standing around at the head of the Cresta line, the taxi is even seated a couple of meters back. She doesn't know. Then, they haul out the yellow DO NOT CROSS CRIME SCENE POLICE TAPE, and we're all, hahaha, this taxi is going to go straight through that shit when it starts up (which it does, by the way, the cops just lift the tape up, knowing better). As we pass through the cordon I look around and on the ground there are coke cans and sprite cans with chalk circles drawn around them. What, have the cans like pegged, I wonder, until I see the AK47 shells lying next to them. Before the chalk lines were drawn the cans were used to demark the areas where they landed. Bit of a dunce move, there are fucking cans littered everywhere in Bree, in between the change.
We move off, leaving the shells behind (I know they are AK because the word stands out in Zulu - ask Zuma...).
Tomorrow I'll let you know what the good news was.
WHITE TAXI, by White Man Jumping
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