Lank, straggly hair. A face full of shadows. Mad, staring eyes. A white tracksuit top and pink bottoms flecked with dirt, or shit, or something not quite dead yet. A smell like the devil's wanksock.
I've passed the same woman at exactly the same spot on the New Cabra Road for the last four days. As I make my way over to Spar to replenish my supply of fun-size Twixes and Benecol yogurts she passes me at the large tree between the corner of my road and Clarke's bakery.
It's really very unsettling, the repetitiveness of her.
I think she's an addict as she has never looked directly at me, just the fifty yard stare of a woman gone wrong. No matter how windy the day I catch the stench of detritus in her wake and the squelch of her broken runners. She could stop traffic but not in the good way.
She must be homeless and never rests, just circles the area over and over again. I've become in tune with her route, hence the daily tree-pass like something from a David Lynch hallucination, but please don't mention a certain type of synchronicity.
No, this is aggrieving because I know that some day she'll have taken her last swig of something awful and I'll be the one left calling for an ambulance, holding her heaving, piss-soaked embers in my arms.
I think I'll move out.