dle…plonk； a kind of tinny sound。 why the hell am i ing here？ i thought to myself as i went in。 there’s a kind of atmosphere about these places that gets me down。 everything slick and shiny and streamlined； mirrors； enamel； and chromium plate whichever direction you look in。 everything spent on the decorations and nothing on the food。 no real food at all。 just lists of stuff with american names； sort of phantom stuff that you can’t taste and can hardly believe in the existence of。 everything es out of a carton or a tin； or it’s hauled out of a refrigerator or squirted out of a tap or squeezed out of a tube。 no fort； no privacy。 tall stools to sit on； a kind of narrow ledge to eat off； mirrors all round you。 a sort of propaganda floating round； mixed up with the noise of the radio； to the effect that food doesn’t matter； fort doesn’t matter； nothing matters except slickness and shininess and streamlining。 everything’s streamlined nowadays； even the bullet hitler’s keeping for you。 i ordered a large coffee and a couple of frankfurters。 the girl in the white cap jerked them at me with about as much interest as you’d throw ants’ eggs to a goldfish。
outside the door a newsboy yelled ‘starnoosstannerd！’ i saw the poster flapping against his knees： legs。 fresh discoveries。 just ‘legs’； you notice。 it had got down to that。 two days earlier they’d found a woman’s legs in a railway waiting…room； done up in a brown…paper parcel； and what with successive editions of the papers； the whole nation was supposed to be so passionately interested in these blasted legs that they didn’t need any further introduction。 they were the only legs that were news at the moment。 it’s queer； i thought； as i ate a bit of roll； how dull the murders are getting nowadays。 all this cutting people up and leaving bits of them about the countryside。 not a patch on the old domestic poisoning dramas； crippen； seddon； mrs maybrick； the truth being； i suppose； that you can’t do a good murder unless you believe you’re going to roast in hell for it。
at this moment i bit into one of my frankfurters； and—christ！
i can’t honestly say that i’d expected the thing to have a pleasant taste。 i’d expected it to taste of nothing； like the roll。 but this—well； it was quite an experience。 let me try and describe it to you。
the frankfurter had a rubber skin； of course； and my temporary teeth weren’t much of a fit。 i had to do a kind of sawing movement before i could get my teeth through the skin。 and then suddenly— pop！ the thing burst in my mouth like a rotten pear。 a sort of horrible soft stuff was oozing all over my tongue。 but the taste！ for a moment i just couldn’t believe it。 then i rolled my tongue round it again and had another try。 it was fish！ a sausage； a thing calling itself a frankfurter； filled with fish！ i got up and walked straight out without touching my coffee。 god knows what that might have tasted of。
outside the newsboy shoved the standard into my face and yelled； ‘legs！ ‘orrible revelations！ all the winners！ legs！ legs！’ i was still rolling the stuff round my tongue； wondering where i could spit it out。 i remembered a bit i’d read in the paper somewhere about these food…factories in germany where everything’s made out of something else。 ersatz； they call it。 i remembered reading that they were making sausages out of fish； and fish； no doubt； out of something different。 it gave me the feeling that i’d bitten into the modern world and discovered what it was really made of。 that’s the way we’re going nowadays。 everything slick and streamlined； everything made out of something else。 celluloid； rubber； chromium…steel everywhere； arc…lamps blazing all night； glass roofs over your head； radios all playing the same tune； no vegetation left； everything cemented over； mock…turtles grazing under the neutral fruit…trees。 but when you e down to brass tacks and get your teeth into something solid； a sausage for instance； that’s what you get。 rotten fish in a rubber skin。 bombs of filth bursting inside your mouth。
when i’d got the new teeth in i felt a lot better。 they sat nice and smooth over the gums； and though very likely it sounds absurd to say that false teeth can make you feel younger； it’s a fact that they did so。 i tried a smile at myself in a shop window。 they weren’t half bad。 warner； though cheap； is a bit of an artist and doesn’t aim at making you look like a toothpaste advert。 he’s got huge cabinets full of false teeth—he showed them to me once—all graded according to size and colour； and he picks them out like a jeweller choosing stones for a necklace。 nine people out of ten would have taken my teeth for natural。
i caught a full…length glimpse of myself in another window i was passing； and it struck me that really i wasn’t such a bad figure of a man。 a bit on the fat side； admittedly； but nothing offensive； only what the tailors call a ‘full figure’； and some women like a man to have a red face。 there’s life in the old dog yet； i thought。 i remembered my seventeen quid； and definitely made up my mind that i’d spend it on a woman。 there was time to have a pint before the pubs shut； just to baptize the teeth； and feeling rich because of my seventeen quid i stopped at a tobacconist’s and bought myself a sixpenny cigar of a kind i’m rather partial to。 they’re eight inches long and guaranteed pure havana leaf all through。 i suppose cabbages grow in havana the same as anywhere else。
when i came out of the pub i felt quite different。
i’d had a couple of pints； they’d warmed me up inside； and the cigar smoke oozing round my new teeth gave me a fresh； clean； peaceful sort of feeling。 all of a sudden i felt kind of thoughtful and philosophic。 it was partly because i didn’t have any work to do。 my mind went back to the thoughts of war i’d been having earlier that morning； when the bomber flew over the train。 i felt in a kind of prophetic mood； the mood in which you foresee the end of the world and get a certain kick out of it。
i was walking westward up the strand； and though it was coldish i went slowly to get the pleasure of my cigar。 the usual crowd that you can hardly fight your way through was streaming up the pavement； all of them with that insane fixed expression on their faces that people have in london streets； and there was the usual jam of traffic with the great red buses nosing their way between the cars； and the engines roaring and horns tooting。 enough noise to waken the dead； but not to waken this lot； i thought。 i felt as if i was the only person awake in a city of sleep…walkers。 that’s an illusion； of course。 when you walk through a crowd of strangers it’s next door to impossible not to imagine that they’re all waxworks； but probably they’re thinking just the same about you。 and this kind of prophetic feeling that keeps ing over me nowadays； the feeling that war’s just round the corner and that war’s the end of all things； isn’t peculiar to me。 we’ve all got it； more or less。 i suppose even among the people passing at that moment there must have been chaps who were seeing mental pictures of the shellbursts and the mud。 whatever thought you think there’s always a million people thinking it at the same moment。 but that was how i felt。 we’re all on the burning deck and nobody knows it except me。 i looked at the dumb…bell faces streaming past。 like turkeys in november； i thought。 not a notion of what’s ing to them。 it was as if i’d got x…rays in my eyes and could see the skeletons walking。
i looked forward a few years。 i saw this street as it’ll be in five years’ time； say； or three years’ time （1941 they say it’s booked for）； after the fighting’s started。
no； not all smashed to pieces。 only a little altered； kind of chipped and dirty…looking； the shop…windows almost empty and so dusty that you can’t see into them。 down a side street there’s an enormous bomb…crater and a block of buildings burnt out so that it looks like a hollow tooth。 thermite。 it’s all curiously quiet； and everyone’s very thin。 a platoon of soldiers es marching up the street。 they’re all as thin as rakes and their boots are dragging。 the sergeant’s got corkscrew moustaches and holds himself like a ramrod； but he’s thin too and he’s got a cough that almost tears him open。 between his coughs he’s trying to bawl at them in the old parade…ground style。 ‘nah then； jones！ lift yer ‘ed up！ what yer keep starin’ at the ground for？ all them fag… ends was picked up years ago。’ suddenly a fit of coughing catches him。 he tries to stop it； can’t； doubles up like a ruler； and almost coughs his guts out。 his face turns pink and purple； his moustache goes limp； and the water runs out of his eyes。
i can hear the air…raid sirens blowing and the loud…speakers bellowing that our glorious troops have taken a hundred thousand prisoners。 i see a top…floor…back in birmingham and a child of five howling and howling for a bit of bread。 and suddenly the mother can’t stand it any longer； and she yells at it； ‘shut your trap； you little bastard！’ and then she ups the child’s frock and smacks its bottom hard； because there isn’t any bread and isn’t going to be any bread。 i see it all。 i see the posters an