Today I walked back to the place where last week I saw a man’s head get kicked in and my breath caught as I thought there was blood still on the municipal slabs where he had lain. But I was being stupid, of course. It’s rained many times since then. It was just congealing strawberry fromage frais trailing along to a squashed Munch Bunch carton. I sat by the lily pond and watched someone too old and too young to be feeding ducks throw pita bread at the waterfowl. The echoes of screams from the playground and squealing gulls made me stand up too quickly and stare into the black water for quiet. As I my eyes ached down at the cosy nothing, yellow green milfoil moved suddenly closer and it hurt my ears like I had just dropped a lift floor.
I wondered why I am always peering into dark lakes half hoping to see a body.
Tuesday, November 08, 2005
Monday, November 07, 2005
Neophyte
My nephew is convinced that wrestling is a real sport but refuses to believe in modern day pirates. I tried not to patronise him but after much frustrating debate, I felt I had no choice but to win the argument by using the line: “With respect, you are eight.”
Friday, November 04, 2005
Friday, September 23, 2005
Workbound
Two Red Bull and four Stella cans with carefully crushed midriffs hug the kerb in the residents car park on Underwood. A camper van with a German licence plate is parked next to a knotted black bin bag with mysteriously large, sharp-edged contents and a browning apple core nestling on top.
At the sharp corner of Deal Street and Hanbury, the bin men meet the street sweepers. Brooms and shovels clipped to the sides of their lorries pass within a whisker and I wonder if they are rivals.
A lad in a Royal Mail van shouts “’ello gorgeous!” out of his window and waves at me with a cheeky, fat grin. I know him from years ago so it doesn’t really count. I can’t remember his name.
There’s stencilled graffiti on the cream wall of the Bank of Islam “I love flat D”. The musical note or dream accommodation? I am staring at the billboard poster advertising the new iPod Nano trying to decide if the model was chosen for having a gigantic hand.
The lights inside the Post Office are on but the door’s locked, causing great consternation out front. A lopsided woman in pale blue, with telephone pole legs and a wheeled tartan shopping bag, is twittering incomprehensibly to an oval brickie wearing thin metal-framed glasses squashed to his forehead just above his eyebrows.
On Hooper Street, I hear someone sniff but can’t see another living soul.
The fire alarm is rattling at Magenta House. Hundreds of suits stand in clumps outside the building, smoking urgently and trying to work out if they are cold or not. The bells stop and a murmur of staff make their way back indoors with practised sullenness.
A short pink guy in bright stripes, draws hard on the last of his fag butt and gently throws it into the road with a long smooth movement of shoulder, never taking his eyes off the remnant of his smoke. He sighs deeply and turns around to climb, very slowly, the steps into his office.
At the sharp corner of Deal Street and Hanbury, the bin men meet the street sweepers. Brooms and shovels clipped to the sides of their lorries pass within a whisker and I wonder if they are rivals.
A lad in a Royal Mail van shouts “’ello gorgeous!” out of his window and waves at me with a cheeky, fat grin. I know him from years ago so it doesn’t really count. I can’t remember his name.
There’s stencilled graffiti on the cream wall of the Bank of Islam “I love flat D”. The musical note or dream accommodation? I am staring at the billboard poster advertising the new iPod Nano trying to decide if the model was chosen for having a gigantic hand.
The lights inside the Post Office are on but the door’s locked, causing great consternation out front. A lopsided woman in pale blue, with telephone pole legs and a wheeled tartan shopping bag, is twittering incomprehensibly to an oval brickie wearing thin metal-framed glasses squashed to his forehead just above his eyebrows.
On Hooper Street, I hear someone sniff but can’t see another living soul.
The fire alarm is rattling at Magenta House. Hundreds of suits stand in clumps outside the building, smoking urgently and trying to work out if they are cold or not. The bells stop and a murmur of staff make their way back indoors with practised sullenness.
A short pink guy in bright stripes, draws hard on the last of his fag butt and gently throws it into the road with a long smooth movement of shoulder, never taking his eyes off the remnant of his smoke. He sighs deeply and turns around to climb, very slowly, the steps into his office.
Thursday, September 22, 2005
Cusp by Robin Robertson
The child’s skip
still there in the walk,
a woman’s poise in her slow
examination
of the brightly coloured globe, this
toy of the world.
Is there anything
More heartbreaking than hope?
still there in the walk,
a woman’s poise in her slow
examination
of the brightly coloured globe, this
toy of the world.
Is there anything
More heartbreaking than hope?
Friday, September 02, 2005
Friday, July 29, 2005
Poem of the Week
The Heron by Paul Farley
One of the most begrudging avian take-offs
is the heron’s “fucking hell, alright, alright,
I’ll go to the garage for your cigarettes”
cranky departure, though once they’re up
their flight can be extravagant. I watched
one big spender climb the thermal staircase,
a calorific waterspout of frogs
and sticklebacks, the undercarriage down
and trailing. Seen from antiquity
you gain the Icarus things; seen from my childhood
that cursing man sets out for Superkings,
though the heron cares for neither as it struggles
into its wings then soars sunwards and throws
its huge overcoat across the earth.
One of the most begrudging avian take-offs
is the heron’s “fucking hell, alright, alright,
I’ll go to the garage for your cigarettes”
cranky departure, though once they’re up
their flight can be extravagant. I watched
one big spender climb the thermal staircase,
a calorific waterspout of frogs
and sticklebacks, the undercarriage down
and trailing. Seen from antiquity
you gain the Icarus things; seen from my childhood
that cursing man sets out for Superkings,
though the heron cares for neither as it struggles
into its wings then soars sunwards and throws
its huge overcoat across the earth.
Thursday, July 21, 2005
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
Monday, July 11, 2005
London "post 7/7"
I have been very happy to see Londoners out on the streets in droves since Thursday’s bombings. Yesterday I took a few photos in our neighbourhood.
Friday, July 08, 2005
Thursday, June 30, 2005
Friday, June 24, 2005
Tuesday, June 14, 2005
Trying not to anthropomorphise
Jehesius!
In other animal news, Poodle caught a bird last night. His first. An ickle sparrow that was still twitching as “Murdering” Murphy rushed towards the garden door to the flat. I managed to shut it just in time but then spent a very uncomfortable hour as Poo toyed gleefully with his prey on the deck before disappearing with Tip. When they returned they were both licking their lips and paws and seemed a whole lot older and wilder than before.
In other animal news, Poodle caught a bird last night. His first. An ickle sparrow that was still twitching as “Murdering” Murphy rushed towards the garden door to the flat. I managed to shut it just in time but then spent a very uncomfortable hour as Poo toyed gleefully with his prey on the deck before disappearing with Tip. When they returned they were both licking their lips and paws and seemed a whole lot older and wilder than before.
Thursday, June 02, 2005
38
It is my birthday on Saturday. This will be my 38th summer.
Stuff makes me happy.
My mostkin, my everythingness. Mum, TC, Minnie, Madge, Tip Little and Poodle Murphy. The fish. Tom Waits. The garden. Ben. Aary. Jack. My camera. Our new hall floor. Chalk pastels. Wearing black. Chinese with Jobi. Ray Winstone. White wine. Kodo drummers. Gemma. Kandinsky. Barbeques in Paddocks Lane. Galway. Jesse’s leopard. Mint jelly. Withnail and I. Short Cuts. The Cote d’Azur. Mark Brown. Jolie Holland. Tucson Zoo. Scars. Honeysuckle. Silver. Stained glass. Climbing Croagh Patrick. Fairy lights. Yellow. Geek Love. Art shops. Chillies. The Raindog Nation. Couscous. Ted. Dad’s mulled wine. Chagall. Jeff Buckley. Drinking Merlot in the kitchen with Ian and Dom. Solveig. Chanel sunglasses. Brick Lane. Velvet. Where the Wild Things Are. The Guardian. Thunder. Steve Buscemi. Picasso. Pinstripe. Poppy fields. The Sihn Lee. The Chimp. John’s Yorkshire Pudding Game. Walking Holly. Rocket. Our Tom Waits’ wall. Coffee. Shopping with Kitty. Bone Machine. Roath. Clean bedding. Hot chocolate. Cary Grant. Berlin. Louis de Bernieres. John Lurie. Hettie’s chicken. Flying. Gin and grapefruit juice. Phil’s mercury dustbin. The Morgan Arms. Hog & Andy. Dilbert. Manhattan. Mull. Rain. Whalerider. The Times Literary Supplement. Beer and postcards. Shaved heads. Portraits. La Wally. Walking the Malvern Hills. Tattoos. Dandelions. Football. Irish pubs. Tarka Dall. Spitalfields Market. Meeting Anders and Peter in the Tiergarten. Orange roses. Springsteen. Eddie Izzard. The Mediterranean. Tulips. Asparagus. Deadwood. Bats. Water. Birthday parties. Loving. Being loved. Laughing. Living.
Stuff makes me happy.
My mostkin, my everythingness. Mum, TC, Minnie, Madge, Tip Little and Poodle Murphy. The fish. Tom Waits. The garden. Ben. Aary. Jack. My camera. Our new hall floor. Chalk pastels. Wearing black. Chinese with Jobi. Ray Winstone. White wine. Kodo drummers. Gemma. Kandinsky. Barbeques in Paddocks Lane. Galway. Jesse’s leopard. Mint jelly. Withnail and I. Short Cuts. The Cote d’Azur. Mark Brown. Jolie Holland. Tucson Zoo. Scars. Honeysuckle. Silver. Stained glass. Climbing Croagh Patrick. Fairy lights. Yellow. Geek Love. Art shops. Chillies. The Raindog Nation. Couscous. Ted. Dad’s mulled wine. Chagall. Jeff Buckley. Drinking Merlot in the kitchen with Ian and Dom. Solveig. Chanel sunglasses. Brick Lane. Velvet. Where the Wild Things Are. The Guardian. Thunder. Steve Buscemi. Picasso. Pinstripe. Poppy fields. The Sihn Lee. The Chimp. John’s Yorkshire Pudding Game. Walking Holly. Rocket. Our Tom Waits’ wall. Coffee. Shopping with Kitty. Bone Machine. Roath. Clean bedding. Hot chocolate. Cary Grant. Berlin. Louis de Bernieres. John Lurie. Hettie’s chicken. Flying. Gin and grapefruit juice. Phil’s mercury dustbin. The Morgan Arms. Hog & Andy. Dilbert. Manhattan. Mull. Rain. Whalerider. The Times Literary Supplement. Beer and postcards. Shaved heads. Portraits. La Wally. Walking the Malvern Hills. Tattoos. Dandelions. Football. Irish pubs. Tarka Dall. Spitalfields Market. Meeting Anders and Peter in the Tiergarten. Orange roses. Springsteen. Eddie Izzard. The Mediterranean. Tulips. Asparagus. Deadwood. Bats. Water. Birthday parties. Loving. Being loved. Laughing. Living.
Monday, May 23, 2005
Lunacy
It has been a difficult day after a difficult weekend. I am blaming the howling gales that have been relentlessly tearing down our street and, of course, the moon. Saturday and Sunday lurched from being fraught to fantastic to fractious and I feel rather wrung out. Matt probably does too, given that I began the day with a spaz about not being able to find Radio Four’s Today programme on our bedside radio. I am not keen on the idea that I am someone who cannot function in the morning without routine but I do get a bit twitchy if I can’t hear the soothing tones of “Auntie” first thing.
It turns out that the radio had not been maliciously tampered with. The dial had not been accidentally nudged. My beloved husband had not, of course, sabotaged my early morning listening. Moreover, he was not actually directly responsible for the 24 hour strike by 11,000 BBC journalists and technicians which resulted in the radical changes to programming and thus my numpty confusion.
I apologised when I realised what a feckless imbecile I had been but still it was not a good way to start the week.
It turns out that the radio had not been maliciously tampered with. The dial had not been accidentally nudged. My beloved husband had not, of course, sabotaged my early morning listening. Moreover, he was not actually directly responsible for the 24 hour strike by 11,000 BBC journalists and technicians which resulted in the radical changes to programming and thus my numpty confusion.
I apologised when I realised what a feckless imbecile I had been but still it was not a good way to start the week.
Wednesday, May 18, 2005
Tuesday, May 17, 2005
Baishakhi Mela
Spent Sunday celebrating the Bengali New Year in our neighbourhood… took a few photos …
Tuesday, May 03, 2005
Tentless encampments
So, it has been a bit of a strange week.
Today, I overheard a scruffy man with too many teeth say to a woman dressed all in black velvet, “How was I to know it would be full of hair?”
Yesterday, in our decidedly urban garden, a smatter of leaves landed on my head. I looked up and was somewhat surprised by the undercarriage of a rusty grey squirrel.
On Sunday, instead of asking if I needed any help, the assistant manager in a shoe shop vacuumed around my feet. Her colleague tried, unsuccessfully, to find the other half of the sandals I wanted to buy. He called Hoover Girl over to the storage shelves to help search and she told him he was “a useless twat”.
On Saturday, I dreamt about hedgehogs and rain tanks and rooms without walls.
On Friday, I received a text message from
On Thursday, I asked a group of job candidates to do a presentation about themselves, which included naming their favourite film. One lad had chosen the movie Seven and illustrated this on a flip chart by drawing a (crap) picture of a severed head in a box. I won’t be inviting him back for a second interview.
On Wednesday, I received a cheque from the solicitors dealing with my uncle’s estate. I thought I’d be thrilled to get this unexpected boost to my finances but I just felt sadder than ever. I have heard people claim this before - and never really fully understood it - but I can honestly say I would give back all the money in a heartbeat to spend just one more day with him.
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