My Olympics

I’m in my own Olympics, dodging tourists on the tube.

Looping in and out, slipping through gaps - waiting for the perfect moment to move.

Just miss the camera lens dangling around their neck as they stand, hands on hips, staring blankly at a map. 

I’m counting the number of logos slapped on cars, on signs, on clothes.

Thousands of volunteers beam and cheer as we line up to see the shows.

I’m stretching high above the crowds to glimpse the dreams of a golden few that sky above the rest of them, waving flags for the world to view.

I’m in my own Olympics, I’m negotiating my pace.

Fast to wake up and then walk part way, I’m planning it all – just in case.

I like this chilled out London – I don’t really mind the change, I just let things flow and smile to myself as the tourists wander the wrong way.

The world will shrink back to normal; as all the dreamers sink back to their daylight achievements.

So I’m holding on tight until the tickertape falls, the seats become empty and they’ve run the last race.

But for now at least, I’m in my own Olympics -

And I'm beating London to the last bit of space. 

Tout

cited

They stand outside the station; their hands shoved in the pockets of faded shorts, covered almost completely by a shiny blue anorak, which is hanging on in the nineties with its bright yellow lapels. We don’t usually see these buxom men, who look like they know places. The skin is weathered from too much waiting outside venues come rain, snow or shine. Those thick, hairy legs look a little out of place next to the pile of commuters streaming past them, all suited and booted with dark black umbrella mushrooms protecting carefully pinned up hair. They can’t even pretend they’re there to spectate, like the Olympic fans who traipse from the tube with their waterproofs tied firmly around their waists, waving brightly coloured flags. You could almost guarantee the tout’s style of hair; a soft white whip piled to the front of their head - a bit like candy floss - or a slicked back sweep that I imagine they've perfected with one fine swoop. You know they're not fans, because they not even smiling. Although the gleaming white trainers are out, as if a poor attempt to connect with the pennies of passers-by.