THE CHICKEN HAS LANDED

The shop directly opposite used to be painted all over chrome yellow.
The paint was kind of lumpy and uneven, darker here, lighter there, like a bad respray.
The stairs to the basement were filled to street level with rubbish, the shop windows were cloudy; dirt on the outside and whitewash on the inside - cataract blank, ghostly eye sockets staring out above the heads of swirling home time kids and late night stragglers at the bus stop.

Often when she couldn't sleep she used to go to the window and stare back. Screams and shouts. Scuffles. Sirens. Breaking glass. And the shop, becalmed and luminous beneath the lurid chemical West London skyline. Waiting.

Then all of a sudden there was movement. The yellow door was open. A young shaven headed man in white overalls sat outside the shop on a broken kitchen chair, sunning himself and skinning up. In between times he cleared the shop out and cheerfully absorbed knock backs from women waiting for the No. 36.

He painted the shop front.

Magnolia.

There was some more to-ing and fro-ing. Then a sign went up - BIG FRIED CHICKEN.

Frigging ace! Domino Pizza is too expensive and the chip shop is always packed..