His work schedule, like a wanting child, was unable to stop pulling at his hands, even though he was keeping them deep inside his pockets, just in case. It was an old habit from school, one that often saved his knuckles from the smash of a ruler.
The unyielding noise in his head, that relentless going on about something. Mithering, they used to call it. He could hear his Mother's voice now, in response to his continual asking for sweets whilst tapping on her arm, on their way home down a road packed with dock traffic. "Stopmitherinme, willyer!" Not many pauses for breath in her speech, except when she was praying. Sometimes, when she spoke with her sisters, he thought they were speaking in tongues, couldn't understand a word of their fastportcitytalk.
Mither? Myther? Moither?Moider? Irish origins? Slang? Or just Scouse spoke fast?
Off at a tangent. Good for him to stroll along thinking about something else, though. What he wanted most right now, was to keep walking into this beautiful afternoon, to freeze time here somehow and have it on repeat play. He wanted to walk by these gorgeous waves until he couldn't see to put one step in front of another, and the need for a sweater or a beer pulled him, willing rather than reluctant, indoors.