Distracted

Was it that word? But in exactly what context? Surely not the most lurid of meanings, that would be absurd. Although before you could consider it, you'd find your mind wandering. Not in any daydreaming sense, but in some curiously detached feeling of deja vu.

Just wandering...

...Wandering along the darkened streets of in the chill air, clouds of breath rising in front of your face. Walking amidst the shadows of the factories, with their ranks of windows. The chimneys rising as black silhouettes against the bright moonlit sky.

And on the corner by the canal bridge, Mill Street. Although there were no mills on Mill Street, just rows of terraced town houses. Along here and opposite this, a concealed alleyway. Those people who knew where would find a heavy panelled door. It's black paint peeled and blistered about the edges. As if from the tales of Ali Babar, the right words would open this door.

Inside, you would be greeted by a slight man with exotic clothes and yellow skin. His dark hair protruded from beneath a silken skullcap. Some suspected that he was nearly blind, for his spectacles covered eyes that seemed half closed. I never understood his name, although he would greet you as his “honoured guest” and usher you inside. Here, he would offer to relieve you of you hat and coat; and for the required fee, would offer you an embroidered jacket before barking something in his foreign tongue. The boy would scamper in with this, before rushing to get the coals and prepare.

Despite all the exuberant greetings and clapping of hands. The curious reverence with which you were treated. Despite the faces that looked out from the shadows behind half closed doors. I never lost sight of his stout friend who sat by the base of the stairs. Who sat in such a way that his grim look and foreboding silence might disguise his stature.

In good time, you were escorted up the stairs, where the familiar smell grew thicker and more enticing. The curtain on the landing revealed the richness of another culture. A topic of discussion here, that Mr Conan Doyle himself had visited this place. On examination, the gentleman had contested that that the exact image of this establishment had been described with astonishing accuracy in a story published in the Strand Magazine. Although much nonsense was often spoken here.

The landing was wide, with a long Persian carpet covering the obscuring the dark wooden floor. The wall had been split into a row of arches, with rich velvet drapes between the flickering gas lights. A silk curtain covered the doorway. Before it, a haze of white smoke hung in the air. Beyond it, the sound of bubbling water, and the smudge of orange glowing through the silk.

A familiar scene in the dim gas lighting. Armchairs encircling the pedestal tables, their french polished surfaces showing the occasional burn. The green velveted chez lounge along the wall furthest away from the fireplace. Billowing silk suspended from the ceiling and the white smoke mist that hung in the air at waste level. There were oriental pictures upon the green walls, with their simple form and delicate detail.

There, on top of the table, a gilded shisha. The hose adorned with much tassles, braid and finery. Smoke rising from the bowl in whisps that gathered around a greying coal. When he offered tea, I waved the boy away, and sat down to smoke.

There were no people here this time, save for a young woman with dark hair, who seemed to remain here. Unthinking and in some state of permanent distraction.