Balloon pants 1

Right in front of me, the lane stretches into the sun.
As I walk sticking to the 1 foot shade the muddy walls throw, I can hear the other three gallivanting behind. Sucking on their ice-lollies. Filling the dust with 'Sluurrrppp'y echoes.

As we walk into the fiery yellow someone calls out to me. Squinting eyes look around as I spot Ash on the first floor veranda of a bark. Well, almost. Correction: barked-green-architecture. I leap across as he chucks his cigarette and punishes it with his foot (Bad boy, you!). 

He takes us in and down the old wood into the primeval engine station. The ceiling so high, I never would have imagined a one-storeyed hut to enclose a machine-massacre inside. In the cool, I can feel rivulets of water slide down my torso. Huffing and puffing I borrow some friendly deodorant from one of them and have a misty shower right away. They follow.

Age-old railway engines are stacked next to each other like toy trains. Iron and lead and copper- metal smells so rusty otherwise. I'll have a glass of your best Zinc-fandel please! 1896. 1853. 1900. 1919. It's a museum. Old colonial engines lined up inactive. But they don't look outdated. They look rather royal. Maharajahs sitting broad-chested, enjoying their suite, blowing cigar puffs and clinking glasses while they share their cunnilingal secrets. I style my air-moustache greeting all - an assuring pat to some, a princessly eye-flutter to the others. 

((((...DING... DONG...)))

The clock strikes 4 and vibrates every metallic cell underground. 

"Oh fuck, its 4...” one of them calls out. "Let's go we're gonna be late". True. I ask Ash to join us, but his greasy palms are sunken into work. Another, another.