Thought Bubbles by Ruthie

The big blue bows shine brightly and send faint blue hues ricocheting off the period properties. Trees laden with twinkling lights appear to mysteriously emerge from a sea of mist. As the mist dissipates, reflections of a Christmas tree with rings of lights emerge. People snap this magical sight on their phones, the same phones that earlier snapped the giant sparkling crown suspended above a nearby crossroads.

Not far from the crossroads, a man in a long green felted jacket and bowler hat flags down a black cab. He stands in front of a hotel which is decorated with a spectacular hot air balloon creation and tasteful lights. The woman who will alight the cab stands at the top of the stairs of the hotel applying lipstick. As a cab pulls up, her head raises to nod in mild appreciation at the man in the bowler hat man. She then nods her head down towards her phone which absorbs her attention in the back of the cab and illuminates her freshly painted lips. 

A few streets away, a group of men linger outside a construction site. Their hard day’s work labouring over these almighty buildings is over. Their leathery hands move cigarettes to lips that have smoked hundreds before. Mutterings of an Eastern European language leave alongside the tobacco-filled exhalations. 

A Rolls Royce with a personalised number plate drives by. A matt-black Ferrari. A shiny Bugatti. Millions of pounds of cars skirt past as pedestrians trundle along the pavements. 

A dusty, white van chugs along and pulls up into a loading bay. The driver stands at the back of the van and struggles to pull off plastic wrapping from crates of drinks. He unenthusiastically loads the stock onto a navy sack truck and lowers the back of the van to floor level. The crates of drinks are wheeled into a nearby bar before the bottles are unpacked and stocked on freshly dusted glass shelves. 

In the nearby library, a man flicks through a newspaper between mumbles under his breath and swigs of beer from a can under his jacket. Adult men wrapped in black puffer jackets are sprawled on armchairs and snoozing. Some light snores echo through the Victorian-era building and off the stained glass windows. The radiator is on and is desperately caressed by the hands of a man in a dark green jacket carrying a takeaway cup. His hunt for warmth bringing him inside fleetingly before returning to a cold winter’s evening. 

Out in the festive winter’s evening, a woman in a sleek beige coat and boots poses with her designer shopping bags. She stands by a vintage mini, its petite frame proudly holding a carefully balanced tower of evergreen branches and wrapped presents. The mini draws attention to the restaurant behind, which is housed in a building resembling a doll’s house, the columns of its grand porchway wrapped up in a glorious red bow. Her husband captures the moment she bends her leg in the air like a Hollywood actress. 

Dressed in layers of jackets, a man bends down to collect discarded cardboard boxes that lie next to a bin. The cardboard boxes temporarily housed clothes that are destined for shopping bags. He folds them all into one box and lifts them onto his shoulder. As he trundles along the pavement, a cab carrying a hotel-aboding woman drives by. He carries on down the glimmering street to find a spot where the cardboard boxes can now temporarily house him. 

Welcome to Mayfair at Christmas.