Bridge Street. Suivre l’histoire

Let me open your eyes so you can watch my story visually unfold; there you go, that is better already.

Take a walk with me, friend, through the corridors of my different hand-painted, segmented front covers. I get to know you more while walking. I describe the concepts of the many colourful ideas I have etched onto once-blank canvases as we pass through.

I say to you, "Here it is."

I grab your arm as we walk into this front cover, sparking my story to life.

A frosty morning has begun during the middle of the winter months. Christmas is approaching; people are becoming busier getting presents for their loved ones, spending the money they have saved in this city's shops. George, a young man, with short dusty blonde hair, with green eyes, is wearing black jeans, and a black coat, as he cycles to his job as a chef in a chain restaurant that’s on the outskirts of the town centre, near the river Cam. We can see the breath of George. He has both earphones in listening to music, playing from the biking playlist he made on his phone. He is peddling his dark blue bike, wearing a black with red trim branded red tick backpack, down a back street. On his left, there are people's homes; in the middle of the row is a silver saloon car pulling into a dentist's clinic. On his left is an overgrown stream, with a big backed television that someone had dumped in there the evening before. You know, the ones you have to take the front window out to get the fucker in your home. A Moorhen swims around the bulky plastic tele with its young in pursuit. Behind the flowing stream is a fenced-off private lake.

*Beep!* "Vehicle Reversing!" *Beep!*

The warning is coming from a dustbin lorry at the bottom of the road. Two men have jumped out from the cab; they are wearing hi-visible vests, over their Cambridge Council uniforms, with thick brown gloves on. George pulls in between two parked cars while the dustbin lorry reverses past, as the Councilmen get the blue bins that are streetside for them to empty. A smartly dressed young lady is leaving her home beside George, who smiles at her; she smiles back at him as he bikes off to carry on his journey to work.

George has stopped at some traffic lights. He goes to press the button as a black car drives past, followed closely by a blue car; he notices out of his eye a young boy holding his mother's hand is going to do the same as him. So George lets the young boy press the button; looking towards the young mother, they are both wrapped up warm for the cold day ahead, their breaths visible; she has ahold of a grey pram that is transporting a flat-screen television with empty packaging, which had been flattened and folded, I would be surprised if it weren't her man that got rid of their old television in the stream, she is most probably going to dump that somewhere along her journey, I bet pretty close from where George has just cycled through. The traffic starts to slow as the light changes to red, and the green man appears. George carries on biking past the young mother, smiling at the young lad, cycling towards a bus stop that has four different cultured people waiting for their way of transportation; beside them is a pub, but it's a bit early for people to be having a good time in there, he bikes past onto Mill Road if you live here you know it's busy, a road that never sleeps if you have tried to cycle down there, it's as tight as nuns cunt, I try to avoid this road at all costs, but if my bike breaks, then it's the number 2 bus that travels down that route into the town centre, but be warned it can take an hour to get there on the bus sometimes. Still, I'd much rather bike a different route; I can be to most places in 15ish minutes, anyway I let my thoughts run away from me. George cycles off a curb onto the side of the road while remaining vigilant of what is happening around him; his head bopping to the music, he turns down a side road.

George cycled down the path on Parker's Piece from mill road to the hotel at the end. He cycles between a few pedestrians, past an overflowing bin; even though it's getting colder, people will still go out to get pissed at the clubs also pubs, especially women, dressed in next to nothing while it's minus one out; I'm not complaining I'm just letting you know what I have seen. He slows down to let another cyclist pass across him on another path, cycling towards Grafton or maybe midsummer. George cycles towards the hotel, passing another overflowing bin with rubbish. Some of the shit you see on the streets when cycling is mad; some things would make you chuckle, and others would make you wonder.

George, still cycling through the town centre, is a quiet start to the day. Still, I am sure the historical streets will become busy when the afternoon following into the evening hits, considering it is Friday, most people's payday, especially when the students come to life. A homeless couple is still sleeping in a tattered green sleeping bag under the entrance of a nightclub. That's not the only homeless people in this city, up and down this once great country; you know why? Because the council and the government are pound-pinching bastards that have no care about people's healthy beings as long as they're getting money, the people who work for the country's councils should ask themselves who are they benefiting. Then they wonder why there are all kinds of different money-making crimes; it's because of your fucking greed, idiots; if we acted like them, we would be in prison. Anyway, don't get me started on what I think of all of them; we should have someone in charge that understands the real side of life. Anyway, that's the little rant over for now. George carries on cycling past rows of shops, where multi-cultured people are walking past or going in, and a few coffee cafes have people drinking or eating snacks.

"Big Issue, anyone!?" A skinny geezer is loudly expressing as he points, "You, sir, would you like one!?"

Offering a passing balding guy wearing glasses and a dark green coat, he refuses to purchase the offered Big Issue, and he carries on with his day. Lee stands outside a massive chain supermarket, I can't say the full name, but let's call it S_burys; you can fill in the blank. George stops at S_burys, gets off, placing his bike beside a black metal bike rail that has seen better days; the black paint has chipped away over time, leaving patches, and a couple of bikes locked to the railings; it even contains a locked bike frame missing its wheels along with the seat. Over the shoulder of George, a silver taxi passes over the cobbled road.

George tells the Big Issue seller, "Keep an eye on that, Lee."

"Will do, mate."

Lee with gelled combed black hair, some stubble around his mush. Big Issues magazines in a plastic wallet, living in the hope that he sells them all today.

George puts his thumb up while walking in to get an energy drink in the hopes he gets wings, along with a pack of smokes.

George is locking his bike up with a black D-lock; he twists to take his key from the lock. Looking down the street, noticing someone had brought in his restaurant's bins. He puts his keys in his jeans pocket, with his rucksack on, with his uniform in. He walks to the front of his restaurant, which is called David2Marseille. George has also worked next door in Café Red, besides that is a brassiere called Côte. David2Marseille is empty from customers because it doesn't open for another two hours, apart from the kitchen porter behind the bar making a coffee or two. The other two restaurants, on the other hand, have customers in them because they make breakfasts along with open earlier at nine where. George's opens at 12, but he starts at 10, but at Café Red, you would start at eight and until 10-11 at night, fucking long shifts to be on your feet for. Saturdays are horrible shifts in both restaurants, and I'm sure they are also in Côte.

"Morning, I will take a cup; please, make sure you sprinkle chocolate over the top," George says while walking through the entrance.

The kitchen porter is from the Czech Republic, and he has dreadlocks that go down to his lower back, dressed in light blue jeans with a white t-shirt on, with a couple of holes in. His name is Andrej.

He responds, "Yeah, man, sure. Chef is in the back, rolling."

Now you shouldn't judge a man by the way he looks, but you would be right if you thought he's a stoner, to the point a couple of the funny fags filled with the devil's lettuce don't do much to him anymore. George carries on, walking past rows of tables with chairs tucked underneath.

"Happy days, mate, don't forget two sugars, please."

George is walking to the back bit where more booths are, salt alongside pepper grinders, with a big bottle of chilli oil sits, huddled on top in the middle of the tables, along with a steak knife next to a fork, sitting on top of white napkin either side of the tables. Jamaican music is playing from a portable speaker in the kitchen. He pokes his head in to see where the head chef is but can't see anyone, just a mobile speaker on top of a chest freezer. He carries on walking past some tattered framed mirrors on the wall for decoration, also a massive clock on one of the walls with two hands, like a person on JSA (Job Seekers Allowance) they don't work. He pulls open the glass door to the outside of the restaurant, which has dark wooden decking with plastic dark grey tables because the weather is not the sunniest. He opens a golden brown garden gate to his left side.

The Czech Republican head chef is rolling a long cigarette on the table, I say with a wink. In the corner beside the restaurant's green bins, there is a building behind that, with windows equally separated, if you look over the bricked wall, a massive drop to the building's underground car park with a delver metal retractable door. There is a plastic tub on the table, a couple of darts inside, and dirty coffee cups beside the tub on the grey garden table.

George asks, "Yo bratr od jiné matky, co se děje?"

In English, he said, "Yo brother from a different mother, what's happening?"

The head chef looks surprised while bumping fists with George, unwrapping his box of smokes, to flip two over out of superstition; it is supposed to be good luck; when they did ten containers, it would be one for ten, two for twenty.

The chef is a skinny guy with black hair also dark eyes, and he is in his mid-thirties, clean shaven today; he usually lets it grow a little.

The head chef responds, "I will reply in English because if I say in Czech, you won't understand, but not bad though considering your accent bratr."

George flicks his red lighter, and a flame exits to spark his cigarette; he puts the packet alongside the lighter back in his pocket while the head chef licks the rolling paper after the smoke leaves George's mouth.

He responds, "Yeah, Jackson has been teaching me, bro, fuck, I was saying this all night, so I didn't forget."

Now Jackson is someone you will meet later, mate; he is the head chef and younger bratr (Brother). He is a funny guy and also a fucking hard worker; he is a good chef, just a brilliant guy to be around, with positive vibes.

The wooden door opens, Andrej walks over to the table with a black serving tray that he places down, and three cappuccinos sit on top. Chocolate sprinkled all over the place, there is more on the tray than on the foamy milk, but George won't complain, not if it is free; the best things in life are.

George breathing out smoke, asks, "What one is mine, bro?"

Andrej response is, "Any one man, they all have the same amount of sugar."

Chef takes a few tokes of the king-skin roll up after passing it to Andrej while George picks up a cup, sipping.

George puts his cup down as he asks, "Quick Match?"

The chef responds by asking, "Around the world?"

The battered dartboard is hanging up on the wall beside the door.

George responds, "Oh yeah, baby, let's do this."

Andrej sits down on a plastic chair while saying, "I will just watch this one."

George walks over to the dartboard, taking out the three scattered darts around the board.

While he says to Andrej "Kočička."

The chef laughs while he takes his fancy darts out from a small black case

Chef said, "Check these out, bratr; they came yesterday."

He passes them to George after he takes a sip from the middle cup. George is nodding while looking at them. He passes the black with gold trim darts back.

George asks, "They look nice. Have you played with them yet?"

He stubs his cigarette out while Chef is smoking the spliff, responding, "Not yet, I am going to christen them now."

George asks, "How much did they set you back?"

Chef responds "Should have been about 120, but I got them for 50 quid."

George is just about to throw a dart to get warmed up but stops; as he looks at the chef, surprised, that is nodding.

George responds, "Fuck that. I don't particularly appreciate spending that much. I have trouble if I spend 60 on trainers."

Andrej says, "Same here, bratr; I make shit last, especially trainers, I have had this t-shirt for years."

George fist bumps in agreement with Andrej while George nods his head. George throws a few practice shots at the dartboard while Chef sorts himself out.

George lost the match of darts, I don't want to make excuses for him, but it's because of lack of practice, compared to the head chef that has a dart board at his home. Drum 'n' base is blaring from the kitchen. George walks out from the door opposite the kitchen's entrance, wearing his all-black chef uniform. He is adjusting his black chef hat, which has a white cutlery crest in the middle. Through the door that George just walked out of is a door that leads to an alley where the chefs or front of house staff smoke in busy times, also the office where the manager is most of the time. The manager is a Polish guy called Chris, his assistant is a French lady called Aida. She passes George while he walks into the kitchen to prep for the day; they exchange smiles in passing. At the front is the kitchen porter, who is sweeping the restaurant's floor around the table's legs. George is rolling up his sleeves as he enters the kitchen.

The head chef passes George a piece of paper as he passes the pizza section. After Chef switches on the three-tier stone pizza oven that he has just cleaned, sparkling now, it doesn't half get dirty after a busy service. George looks at the piece of paper while the Chef opens the big grey door for the walk-in fridge opposite twinned, deep silver sinks. Behind George is a six-slated grill, is sandwiched between two twinned fryers, also the pizza oven. The head chef reappears from the walk-in; while he is nodding to the drum 'n' base beat, he passes him a plastic container full of burgers, but they are not ordinary burgers; they are lamb burgers.

George asked. "Yeah, seems simple enough, bottom and top bun squirt of pesto mayo, lettuce, a slice of tomato, burger with guacamole on top with three crispy onion rings, closed with the top bun, on a tray with fries also a pot of relish. This the month's special, bro?"

The head chef is pouring pizza sauce into a saladette big metal container with a 2oz red-handled ladle sticking out from within. It is beside a significant metal container full of tiny mozzarella cubes, the cheese alongside the sauce act like a divider because in smaller rectangular metal pots in three rows, on the left is veg, on the right is meat, four fridge compartments underneath, next to the fridge unit in the corner is the marbled slab where they make the dough circular.

Ched responds, "Yes, also, there is a veggie pizza."

George slices the lamb burger packaging open; he puts the red handles knife down on the red chopping board. That is on top of the meat fridge that is underneath the grill. George is putting blue gloves on to sort the burgers out so he can put the lamb burgers inside.

He responds, “Oh right, bro, I think the lamb burger will sell well."

George chucks the empty packaging into one of four grey plastic bins. There is a six-burner stove to the right side of the fryers that belongs to the pasta section. A massive pot of water is in the right-hand corner of the furnace, which is for bringing pasta up to temp, with eight metal pasta pots hanging on the edge of the canopy. Against the wall beside the stove is the same type of fridge as the pizza section. The grill section has the same type of fridge. In the corner is the kitchen porter section, the big dishwasher is currently filling up, and a doorway beside which leads to two chest freezers which are for making desserts, which the KP does; he also gets paid in peanuts. Now I have shown you around my second home, but just for your information, there are no windows or doors that lead outside. This kitchen has two entrances; one that anyone that works in this place comes in, which is a swinging white door; the other one is beside the walk-in fridge, which leads to the customer toilet, also the drink stock room. I can tell you it gets hotter than Satan's nut-sack mate in the summer, especially on the grill section, sandwiched between the two boiling sections for a thirteen-hour shift; you're having Satan's nut-sack, fucking hell, George starts to switch on the grill to carry on setting up for the day, now Fridays are funny days because it can be busy during the day to evening or dead during the day then at 6 or 7, it fucking explodes into life.