Drake Circus Dramaturge

Warm wind strolls down the wide city street, carelessly spilling scent: damp water fountain, frying onions, spice, some eye stinging thing that might be called perfume, a simmer of old bin, traffic fumes, baking bread, coffee steam, syrup. Beyond the dust and smell of streets a series of double doors admit the public to the steel and glass sky high wonder with the smooth floors, where shops line up indoors, where the street odours must sneak at the edge of the coolly conditioned air. A grey clad force with bright armbands and earpieces keep a presence. Nobody runs up the down escalator: but this is a calm time of day. Maybe in the afternoon when caution and tempers are thinner there will be drama.

Past the bag selection in Primark two friends are walking, leaning confidentially close.

'I can't stop thinking about him.'

'Aww.'

'His girlfriend-'

That's all that was overheard: one snippet of a story that seems plain enough. Yep, drama anon.