a misfit in Liverpool

A misfit in Liverpool I think of oranges when I see a painting by Constable of a morning sun that looked like blood orange dripping nectar down on some fishermen trying to catch eels on the dark surface of the bay. There were sail-ships too ready to hoist sail in the morning wind. When I lived in England, I met several police constables, most of them, nice blokes, but during the miners´ strike, they became radicalized, they had a good talking to by those higher up and were also promised plenty of overtime. John, a police constable fifteen years on the beat and no promotion- a friend of mine refused to partake in hitting miners over the head, he continued his lonely beat, but at the station, he was ostracised, a lonely figure in need of a friend- He often came into my cafe after hours, we drank vodka with orange juice, lamenting the time we lived in. John took early retirement, and I sold my cafe.