True Burger Queen

Guiding lights in times of personal crisis can come from the most unexpected sources, but lately, I have found a true oracle on Oxford St.

It was the week that I shed the greasy clasps of the doughnut and leapt into the unknown. Walking down the dusken path on rainswept Oxford street, past the umbrella yielding beige coated beauties rushing home to their poodles, I began to doubt my decision, ever dampened. I happened acrost the red headed plaits of wee Wendy, child star of U.S burger chain Wendy’s (no doubt based on the daughter of some fat white haired colonel who wanted his ‘little pumpkin’ to reach stardom). Wendy’s name is emblazened across the side of the joint in huge individual neon letters that emit scarlet radiation into the already smogfestered sky 24/7. Yet as if knowing I was looking her way, Wendy decided to be my ‘Jimmeny Cricket’. I saw, upon her brickened brow that some of her initials had been punched into darkness, black where the bloodied dazzlement once shone. She was missing an E, N and D. I thought of my departure, and saw it fitting that Wendy of all people, whose burgers I had never patronised, should acknowledged that I was in a period of transition, and that my doughdom was at an ‘End’. In the same thought frame, I was doubting my decision, and having passed Wendy looked back at her words. Instead of seeing the end, I saw her red muse telling me that I was ‘Wy’s’ (wise). Happy with her taking the trouble to talk to me, one of a hundred fools on the street, I proceeded home.

Later that week I was pondering upon my occupational aspirations, and thinking that maybe, just maybe I could be a writer? This thought came as I had just passed Piccadilly Circus, and there in front of me was another branch of Wendy’s , I smiled at my new friends face, beaming from a round disk shaped sign. As I thought of the above Wendy asked me, (missing her D,Y and apostrophe S) : WEN? When indeed my sweet Wendy!

My final words of wisdom from the fair flamed maiden came a week later. Walking back past her Oxford Street outlet, feeling a little low, I was unsurprised to see more of her letters punched out, but mortified to hear what she had to tell me. We DIE!! ( WExDYx) she said. This was disturbing, as one who had so many positive and understanding things to say to me, should suddenly turn and wish upon me the true end. I began to walk away quickly , and fearfully, looking over my shoulder for large red double deckers that speed along the gutters where I walk to avoid tourists on the path, paranoid about cycling couriers, black cabs and falling pigeons on scaffolding, I rushed.

It was only later that evening, when I thought about Wendy again , that I realised she wasn’t being an evil bitch after all, she was actually being her most profound of all. I put together everything she had told me over the previous week, and it amassed to this.

“ Wy’swenwedy “ – “Wise when we die”

What truth she speaks. When it’s all too late, I’ll know the score.

I walked down Oxford Street again last week, and Picadilly Circus. But Wendy spoke no more wisdom, she had been repaired, silenced by the pocket of her father, his wealth hiding her words unheard. I’m just glad I was around for her one week of prophecy, and though I will never eat a burger at her place, I will forever think fondly of her…


The eternal wisdom of red-heads

Guiding lights in times of personal crisis can come from the most unexpected sources, but lately, I have found a true oracle on Oxford St. It was the week that I shed the greasy clasps of the doughnut and leapt into the unknown. Walking down the dusken path on rainswept Oxford street, past the umbrella yielding beige coated beauties rushing home to their poodles, I began to doubt my decision, ever dampened. I happened acrost the red headed plaits of wee Wendy, child star of U.S burger chain Wendy’s (no doubt based on the daughter of some fat white haired colonel who wanted his ‘little pumpkin’ to reach stardom). Wendy’s name is emblazened across the side of the joint in huge individual neon letters that emit scarlet radiation into the already smogfestered sky 24/7. Yet as if knowing I was looking her way, Wendy decided to be my ‘Jimmeny Cricket’. I saw, upon her brickened brow that some of her initials had been punched into darkness, black where the bloodied dazzlement once shone. She was missing an E, N and D. I thought of my departure, and saw it fitting that Wendy of all people, whose burgers I had never patronised, should acknowledged that I was in a period of transition, and that my doughdom was at an ‘End’. In the same thought frame, I was doubting my decision, and having passed Wendy looked back at her words. Instead of seeing the end, I saw her red muse telling me that I was ‘Wy’s’ (wise). Happy with her taking the trouble to talk to me, one of a hundred fools on the street, I proceeded home. Later that week I was pondering upon my occupational aspirations, and thinking that maybe, just maybe I could be a writer? This thought came as I had just passed Piccadilly Circus, and there in front of me was another branch of Wendy’s , I smiled at my new friends face, beaming from a round disk shaped sign. As I thought of the above Wendy asked me, (missing her D,Y and apostrophe S) : WEN? When indeed my sweet Wendy! My final words of wisdom from the fair flamed maiden came a week later. Walking back past her Oxford Street outlet, feeling a little low, I was unsurprised to see more of her letters punched out, but mortified to hear what she had to tell me. We DIE!! ( WExDYx) she said. This was disturbing, as one who had so many positive and understanding things to say to me, should suddenly turn and wish upon me the true end. I began to walk away quickly , and fearfully, looking over my shoulder for large red double deckers that speed along the gutters where I walk to avoid tourists on the path, paranoid about cycling couriers, black cabs and falling pigeons on scaffolding, I rushed. It was only later that evening, when I thought about Wendy again , that I realised she wasn’t being an evil bitch after all, she was actually being her most profound of all. I put together everything she had told me over the previous week, and it amassed to this. “ Wy’swenwedy “ – “Wise when we die” What truth she speaks. When it’s all too late, I’ll know the score. I walked down Oxford Street again last week, and Picadilly Circus. But Wendy spoke no more wisdom, she had been repaired, silenced by the pocket of her father, his wealth hiding her words unheard. I’m just glad I was around for her one week of prophecy, and though I will never eat a burger at her place, I will forever think fondly of her…