Captain Morgan.

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 I spent the night with Captain Morgan and woke early the next day on the other side of Hollywood. My love affair with the Captain's rum had once again led to unrequited love and heartache. I do not know why I go through the same process every second evening expecting a different outcome. But I am aware I do. 

This particular morning I am awake early, cannot face breakfast and so let my weak and defeated body bring me downhill towards the river. It is but gravity. The many steps of the old-town hill jolt my inner being. I am too old for this. I can see the river in full flood below and notice both the calmness and gun-metal- sludge colour of it. The black hood of a hangover slowed my thoughts and held me in a state of catatonic loss. Loss of the last night and probable mourning for future days to come.

I was early to the river, an oily tide now stalled there. Nothing but a few, rusting hulks riding high in the port, proud despite their abandonment. I was looking up at one such vessel, blackened and tight to it's lines like myself. It had always been there. How many mornings had I sauntered to the water's edge and looked at it? Not sunken, fighting every tide and gale. Straining at the chains. An old friend. A metaphor. 

I walked along the Quay, on the outside of the flood defenses, inches from water. I liked these mornings. No one was awake. Not even the quarrelling couple that walked like lost ghosts in search of daily diazepams. Not even the junkies queueing for the plastic shot-cup of methadone. Not the real alkys, cracking open cans of Galahad to steady the nerves. Not even a smell yet of Moroccan black wafting down from the Riverside apartments, as common as evening barbecues in disturbia. No sign of neck-grabbing aggression as the Tuesday dole money went from hand to vein. No, it was too early. The company I had was but goosebumps and electrical shorts from the dark rum that was my refuge. 

I watched an otter hunt mid-river, a heron stalk bankside and ducks float in a family-raft near rushes. I liked being close to nature. 

Trucks and cars left the town over the concrete bridge. A shop shutter rolled up metallically out of sight. A bus took on it's passengers as I approached. The place was coming alive. Soon that first coffee would frazzle my bloodstream. Soon a brighter outlook. Soon Captain Morgan's broken promises would be forgotten. Soon I would begin to think again about the future. My arrested development. I had not given up hope yet. Maybe my 19th year would be the one?

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