Lion at the Gate

A festival of the past. Nighttime. I’m  wearing a black suit. I climb up pyramid stairs, to a network of aerial bridges, unsure of the direction to take. A couple from the 40’s are heading to a ‘marvellous’ party. I head in the other direction. I meet people walking dogs. I say hello, protecting a friendly white cat from the dogs. Under a bridge, an old colleague, Gordon, sits under a bridge with his partner in summer clothes. I pass him some sequinned sunglasses and a pug dog that I think he has lost. They aren’t his. 

Summer is here. I walk across lawns, where students wearing paper masks of historical black figures and suits, play frisbee and cricket. The white cat is still with me. Now it has a little cat friend. Theres a lion at the gate. Both cats run up to greet it. The white cat nuzzles against the lions mouth. I want to run. I fear the lion will devour the cats and then me. The cats owner screams, and I rush forward to protect the cats from the hungry lion. The lion ambles away. Deciding not to devour the devout. 

I’m on a road. Outside an empty house, I see a drum machine I’d thought lost. I pick it up. A young guy comes out, accusing me of stealing from his garden. I explain how I’d lost it. A passing friend convinces him this was true. The young guy apologises, and explains how since he moved in, lots of stuff has been dumped in his garden. He shows me baggage, and I search it for other things thought lost. It’s all empty, or full of clear plastic bags of air. I’m sad. 
The young guy is moving on soon, and thinks there may be somethings I can use that his family will want to get rid of. I walk to his families house. Beautiful purple gradient crocuses on a perfect lawn, children running about, shouting, an over stretched mother and father who are happy to meet us. 
I leave, and try to organise the sharing of contact details between three of us. My phone is all wrong. It’s technology is a barrier to communication. I try a new phone. It still doesn’t work. I try my iPad, joking how the huge screen makes me think I’m in an odeon cinema. It doesn’t work. My friend eventually shares our details. His way of communicating works better. 
I’m at work, in a huge college. Cakes are everywhere. Some unfinished, some mostly devoured. I’m supporting a student who doesn’t really need me. I leave, with some cake, to get the bus home. The buses aren’t stopping. People run after them. I worry about having enough change. Crossing the road, I drop my coins. I find it hard to avoid the traffic and get to the safety of the other side. 
A van accelerates into a driveway, flipping over. 

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