clang

Clang! Bang!

It started as one of those usual afternoons, sitting in front of the monitor and trying to write. But then, clang! bang! more clang! and definitely more bangs! Children scattered, and small bicycle brakes could be heard. A van reversed, tyre against the edge of the pavement, more revving, then forward, back again and then up it goes fully on the pavement. Breaks, hand brake, slamming of the door, and then sliding of the side door.

"Mdnhdhukkjj jhbhj..."
Voice muffled. "Ha ha ha" very loud and brash, one of those laughers that fill the street, mouth wide open, while pulling up the back of the trousers. More "ha ha ha" followed by "jh cjhaajejiwj c jhbcluew... ha ha ha"
Kids running, tiny wheels of skateboards, and more dry break squeaking.
A mother shouts the name of a child, angrily.
The kid doesn't care; he is right at the top of the street, turning his bike around on his two feet.
A series of sliding, banging, ha ha ha, geese entering the conversation, followed by furious flapping of wings on water.
Fragments of "ehsbcyuguwhebuuhuh ushrve uebce! ksuehbc @*ing hell!" [that last bit was easy to get].
Loud repeated clanging, banging, bashing, knocking, dropping, dragging, rolling, pulling.

The world arrives at me in fragments. I assume the noise to be kegs delivered and dropped off at the pub opposite. The afternoon delivery chaos. I am wondering if I should be bothered to stand up, walk to the window and look, while assembling possibilities. In the meantime, the street turns into just sound: the large truck of the SPAR zigzagging among parked cars, the mailman dropping something through the flap, an electric silent taxi reversing near the top. How many kegs are they dropping through the manhole today?

"Jwhbdbchewwhu uvccu", she says.
"Kjshbclebc suebcecgv kauhwbuc ha ha ha", he replies.

One hour later, I step outside and notice the erection of a scaffolding two houses down from mine. No kegs in sight. "Ha ha ha", I think. A child hangs on to it like a little monkey from some defiant zoo. His school jacket thrown in the middle of the street. The mother calls him from inside. He does not move but keeps swinging.

This temporary skeleton stands against the weather, the houses, the silent taxis. Grey on grey, as a temporary monument to a work that for the past week hasn't yet started. The street is silent, no van wheel squeaking against pavements, skateboards rolling, or children playing. No old men anymore precariously leaning against sticks, checking on the stability of this structure, as a theatre with no actors waiting for a story that has not yet been written.