I am hungry, my last meal was a God-sent egg-and-sausage sandwich delight; two layers of fried eggs dipped in ketchup to the point of drench-soaked dripping at the sides slapped smack between butter toasted bread – forming a decked sandwich of it all. Add to this, in between, right at the middle, strips of roasted beef bangers evenly sliced and swiped also in running ketchup. Yes, yes indeed that was a good one, and I washed it down with a warm black coffee, a large one (chocolate essence). See, I could skin a lion (a live one) to sink my teeth into one of those again.
But I am hungry, my tummy-grumbling so loud its audible to others, and I am watching this fat cat munching away at his burger. He isn’t so impolite though, he points me to the litter bin down by the corner at the end of the building and to the other at the other end of the building, one with shredded paper popping out at the top and the other with brush trimmings hanging out of it. With slurping lips and a condiment stained finger he says, “Over there, there must be something to eat in there, have you checked in there?”
The disappointment weighs heavily on my legs, as I lift them, one after the other dragging myself further and further away from this depressing and demeaning litter bins that call to me. I stumble and stagger bumping into stuff and into more well-to-do felines, licking their paws and offering their help, but their help too is nothing like the juicy burger that I saw before, only hope; “Just hang in there,” is what they say, “soon something will come up.”