remote cards

Passing Placement

2010-08-13T14:39:00.002+01:00

Monday morning and there are a handful of new starts, going through the induction mill for that dept that sits around me. They can’t be graduates; seriously, they all look too young – guessing I would put them at 18 at best. But I do find that I increasingly have no ability to guess ages, so what would I know? There are a couple of guys, too tall, too skinny, the floppy hair of whatever scene is in at the moment (like I would know).

And then the girl, the guys at a guess are Scottish, British at least, I don’t think she is. My guess here would be that she is Korean, not least given the way that the various Korean guys around the office are making an effort to stop and talk to her through her first week, to see how she is getting on. She is… petite. Long dark hair, which she has mostly worn down, showing off the precision cut – her fringe across the top of her eyebrows, the perfect consistent level of the rest of it as it falls by her shoulders. Though Thursday she wears her hair up in a pony tail.

On Monday she is told that Friday is casual dress day. The rest of the week she floats about looking reasonably smart casual anyway. Every day she wears a different top, long sleeved, a blouse or a blouse type thing. But every day she wears the same skirt. Who knows how much stuff she has brought with her, how readily she has been settled in, presumably arriving in Scotland from Korea for the first time ever. The skirt is full bodied, knee length, black, with spiralling kind of floral white patterns blazing from it – the kind of thing which is eye catching, and that you notice readily.

Thursday evening, leaving site, I drive up to the security gate, and I see her walking through the pedestrian gate. It's a bit drizzily at this point, after quite a warm afternoon, so she is carrying an umbrella, and I can’t help but wonder if she was issued that on her first day. Is it standard practice to prepare the foreign students arriving in Scotland by giving them a brolly? It would certainly make some sense.

I then notice how far back the traffic is backed up, and try to find some route round the problem. Which unfortunately makes my life worse, because when I loop round to the point I want to turn right the police are waiting. The road is closed, and I need to go left instead, into unknown territory. I seem to take the longest detour ever before finding my way back to the road I want, then because the road from there I normally take is closed for resurfacing I have to take another route again, though this time, thankfully, a more familiar path. As I loop through the town centre I stop at the lights across from the college, and there she is again, the girl. Presumably having walked a nice clear path to the main road, getting a bus, and making it all this way in a fraction of the time its taken to me.

There must be a company flat in this area, or at least one set up by certain members of staff. I’ve seen others of the young Koreans at work getting on or off buses in this stretch on previous occasions. The lights change, I go on, still frustrated by the extra half hour I’ve added to my journey with all these detours.

Today, it’s Friday, and she isn’t wearing that skirt today. The woman that brought her in and told her about the casual day said that involved “jeans, etc”. So sure enough, she is wearing jeans, and a flimsy white t-shirt, something with an abstract black pattern on it which no doubt represents something I can’t work out from the one glimpse as she goes by with the guy with the beard who seems to have been mentoring her half the week.

About noon today we get a reveal. The students do their last tour together. Then they get handed a branded goodie bag from the company, and good byes are made - they were only here for the week. When I did that I was still in school, but I'm presuming that they must have been students of some kind, getting a little bit of industrial experience. Now, I presume, are gone.

2010-08-12T22:10:00.000+01:00

She walked through Camden, talking to her camera. Filming video postcards to be sent home. Star and narrator, for the wild and wonderful to be found around her.

A New Girl

2010-04-28T21:39:00.001+01:00

The new girl is loose limbed. The way she walks, her arms swinging back and forth. Like she doesn’t have a shred of stress in her body. Like she is entirely relaxed and without a care in the world. The expression on her face seems to back this up. She wanders round the office with bright eyes and a little smile, the smile almost a smirk of perpetual amusement and delight. She is young, we can’t agree whether she is a student here only for a placement, or a graduate starting a new role. Her youth is clearly part of why she appears the way she does.

I recall her coming in for an interview; there were a few times where groups of students appeared. I recall her trotting along behind a senior member of staff, as she left the group of others behind, followed to the interview room, that smile cracking her face. Here she is, now into her second week, going through those awful early days of any job – the inductions, the wait for log in permissions, for security passes, the reading of crap that people have foisted on you to tide you over.

One day last week it got to her, the first week boredom. The two of us work in a department of two, the new girl part of the other department that surrounds us. We were sitting talking, as you do, when we exchanged glances, and I couldn’t help but laugh. The new girls head sinking to the desk, and staying there for a minute or so. Today I’m reminded of that, the momentary head in hands moment.

Most days she wears a blouse, light blue or green tints, stripes or something on a white background. Her hair is shoulder length, light brown, unremarkable, she has worn it down, once or twice, but mostly tied back. She wears glasses. Dark trousers. A reasonable facsimile of a professional woman. Altogether it wouldn’t be hard to describe as he being plain in appearance. But actually she is not unattractive - her curves, her smile, that looseness, her youth, all factors to make heads turn really.

London to Glasgow, with more snow.

2010-04-06T21:51:00.000+01:00

Airports. It becomes a love hate relationship sometimes I have to say.
I love the bustle, the vibrancy, the sense of life. The destinations
and travellers, the gaggle of hen parties, the threat of football
fans, large families with overflowing suitcases. Cases put on scales,
removed from scales, adjusted and repeated. They have a machine now,
50p a suitcase and it’ll tell you how much it weighs. But as the hours
go by, you can feel your soul being leeched from you, destroyed. A
long time between flights, or an extending delay. Often there is a hit
and run approach to travel, if you have the time, you get checked in,
bags cleared, grab a bite to eat, maybe a tea or coffee, then you
board the plane. This time, I’ve done that, bags in, buy cheap
collection of Zelazny stories from a curious little clearance shop,
through security, eat pizza and drink coffee. A quick wonder round the
shops on this side, see if there are any good deals, anything
particularly eye catching, nip to toilet, then departure gate. But I
check the gate on the way to the toilet, its been delayed. On way back
out from toilets I head someone asking about the flight at the
information desk, so I stop, I listen, when done I ask them to fill me
in on anything I missed. More than an hours delay, computer problems –
they had mentioned that at check in, no passengers list had made
things tricky.

I go to the stand alone coffee place, get myself the largest tea they
sell, a piece of caramel shortbread, then find a chair with a view of
the departures screen. I sit there and listen to the man at the next
table, phoning home, same flight as me, telling his wife about the
delays. Like me he sits there feeling hard done by, harassed. I go
back to reading Dan Rhodes’ Gold, which I’m getting quite far through.
Glancing to board, reading 2 pages, drinking tea, repeat. A couple of
adults sit down at one of the central tables, soon joined by a flock
of teenage girls, bags everywhere as they slump there, other flights
adding on to the delayed list on the board. An older couple sit in two
deep arm chairs, taking turns to wander off, check laptops. The man
starts to watch an episode of Poirot on his laptop, makes it through
the title sequences, changes his mind and shuts it down. A member of
staff goes round, moving chairs, placing them round the sides of the
seating area, closing this part off for the evening. Presumably they
expect things to wind down, but with 6 flights on the board with
delays, no one is in a hurry to clear out quite yet.

Gets to point where I have about 10 pages of book left and the flight
has been delayed another half hour, bringing it up to two hours. Just
about last person left in this section of the coffee place (the other
half remains busy), I give up, go for a walk. Another visit to the
proper book shop on this side, not in the mood for the short stories I
bought earlier, and not wanting to be left with nothing to read I look
for inspiration. It comes in the form of a new edition of The
Prisoner, 1969 novel from the TV series, written by Disch. That done
I wonder through to the departure gate, tired of the lounge, tired of
this lack of information. There is no more information to be had at
the half dozen gates, as people line up to board flights to Newcastle
and Malaga. I grab another tea, and take a table in the small
collection at this end of the airport. A guy at next table, wiry and
grey, reading some kind of thriller I think. I go back to reading, he
laughs at bits, I laugh at bits, and then I finish. Just as well I
bought that other book, I make a start on it. The guy at next table
turns to the couple on the other side of him, who are maybe in their
50’s, so waiting for Glasgow then? I interject, how can you tell?
Then, looking at the board, I suggest that the projected 8.35 take off
just isn’t going to happen. He frowns – I’m not sure I thank you for
your pessimism. I apologise, but we both know given its now 8.10,
there is no way we are taking off in the next 20 minutes.

Finally announcements are made, vague apologies suggested, offerings
of some kind of complimentary drink to compensate. We start to queue
up for boarding, the people in front looking forward to their free
drink, talking about champagne, about doubles. Though, as the garbled
in flight message actually explains it’s a free hot or cold soft
drink. Which they dispense as they work round the cabin, so the flight
itself seems to fly by reasonably quickly. Its raining as we board,
and we’re advised by the captain its similar on the other end.

Boarding the plane after a couple of hours delay, a crinkle faced
white guy takes the window seat. His face worn, lined, reminds me of
an Australian guy I worked with a few years ago. A young black girl
sits in the same row as him, taking the aisle seat, and they chat a
little as bags are stowed, as we all go through the motions of
settling in for the journey. He wears a heavy jacket, yellow and black
checks, a working man’s jacket. She wears a very similar kind of
jacket, but a branded trendier version, green and black checks, with a
grey hooded top underneath, the hood up over her head, a pretty face,
and dark hair round the edges. When we land she stands up and they go
through the same process in reverse, this time her hood is down, she
wears a pink flower in her hair.

As I get to the cabin door and step on to the stair way I take a look
at the weather. That’s not rain, its worse than that, the icy chunks
flitting by with freezing results. Snow! End of March and more snow.
Damn. We hurry to the terminal, to arrivals and baggage claim, outside
into the night to wait for taxis, the snow collecting on every
surface. Its still thin on the ground when the taxi drops me off at
the work’s car park where I can retrieve my own car. But half way up
the road, driving through uneven surface resulting from road works, I
feel the first sense of slipping control. Further out still, and the
snow is a couple of inches. Car in front slows down all the time, and
so do I. Finally I get to my turn, and get up the hill with no
problem. Though by this stage I’m getting cautious, and the bridge
proves why. No one has been across the bridge, just a little one, but
its steep, and the banking on either side means the snow is thicker. I
can’t get over. The embankment exerts a pull, determined to drag me
from the road.

I got so far up, but no deal. Reverse back. On wrong side of road,
half up on grass. When the old woman in the 4x4 appears. It’s a
blizzard and between her head lights and the snow I can’t see any
detail until I am right up to her open window. She offers to give me a
lift the rest of the way – we are only a mile from where we are
headed. But I don’t want to leave my car quite where it is, I don’t
want someone else hitting it, I don’t want to leave an obstruction. So
I wrestle it a bit more, get it back as far as I can, half of the
road, inches from the fence that divides the road from a steep slope.
It’s not ideal, but not a lot more I can do. I wrestle my bag from the
boot, trying to get it over to her car through the blasting snow. Half
way across and the gritter appears, the oversized behemoth, spraying
grit everywhere he goes to help disperse the snow. There is a line of
cars behind him, sheltering in his wake, as he climbs down and we
discuss the situation. He offers to do what he can; maybe a good blast
at the bridge will be what it takes. It sounds like a better plan than
abandoning my car, so with my thanks the woman carries on her way.
Between us we manoeuvre my car, can I get over with a push, then out
the way to let him go. Then further attempts. By which time I’ve been
here for over half an hour and I’m struggling to get anything from my
car. An older guy appears from the next car along, provides a pep
talk, I roll my eyes, and eventually let him give it a kick to the top
of the hill. He has the freshness at least, and I try not to think of
the smell of having over done it as I get back in and follow in the
tyre tracks of the gritter the rest of the way, the line of other cars
now in my wake. But as I expected, once over that bridge, the rest of
the way is manageable, I keep it steady and persistent.

Last time I got stuck at the final hurdle, trying to get my car off
the road, I’d ended up at an angle. So this time I find a good place
and park as soon as possible, planning for disruption ahead. I trudge
the rest of the way, only a few minutes more, fumbling with bags over
my shoulders, trying to find my house key. Step through the door, bags
to the floor, kettle on, a slice of toast and sink into a seat,
knackered. Not long after I head to bed, midnight gone, knowing I need
to get up for work in the morning, knowing to be on the safe side I’ll
need to get up early, knowing if its going to snow all night then I’ll
take one look at it and say to hell with that. I sleep badly; get up
again at 6.30, from the back window it looks bad. So I put on heavy
trousers instead of work trousers, and get everything sorted, back
into my winter coat, gloves, scarf, hat; all the things I was missing
in the unexpected surge of the previous night’s blizzard. It’s still
snowing as I step outside, but the plows have been out, tractors with
attachments, giving it a thorough going over. Great. But that can also
create a higher wall round parked cars, so the road might be clear,
but I might have 2 foot of snow round the car. But as I get closer I
can see I’m clear, the car in front of me does indeed have a wall
along his side, but the corner was taken in a way that the wall starts
passed me, and I can reverse to the main road and get on from there.
Through the day the snow turns to rain, and it mostly clears. The
window of time means I hit the worst of it, and all because my flight
was delayed.

Tapas

2010-04-06T21:48:00.001+01:00

We’ve gone to a tapas place; we’ve never been here before. Though I
should have been here on a work night out, but I ended up too sick to
go. It seems a decent enough place, it’s got some character. Though
still how tapas works for a Christmas night out is something I am
unsure about. The waitresses all have long hair, tied back into pony
tails, uniform blue blouses. The manageress a little older, she wears
a black blouse, has a nose ring, an eyebrow piercing, bobbed dyed red
hair, and an accent.

To the side of our table there is hunched old man, he sits on the same
side as I do, sat essentially on the same length of bench. Seemingly
unconsciously he kicks back, the heel of one foot banging against the
wooden board fronting of the seat. I look around trying to find the
source of the sound, convinced initially that it must be a kid
somewhere, that restless childish behaviour you sometimes encounter in
restaurants. So I’m surprised to realise its him, watching the foot
twitch, wondering if he even knows he is doing it. He is obviously a
regular, though the waitress isn’t as familiar with his habits as the
manager. The waitress takes his plate, asks if he wants coffee, he
says tea. Minutes later the manager takes his empty glass, asks if he
wants tea, he says yes. The menu is one of those which lists a half
dozen types of coffee, a token hot chocolate, but no mention of tea,
but he gets his pot soon enough. Followed by a complimentary shot of
liqueur, which is brought to him without him asking and at the
manager’s nudging of the waitress.

Along the wall there are two couples. One there when we arrive, girl
with long hair, brownish floral dress, and her boyfriend with his flat
cap on the entire way through dinner, nipping out for a smoke between
courses leaving her to stare into space. Between the cap and the
abandoning her for a smoke my brother and I are unimpressed. In the
corner another couple, they arrive after us and leave before us, both
are pretty regular looking, average, she mainly catches the eye from
the colour of her cardigan, a kind of neon bubble gum pink. A mother
daughter sit to my right, a table for four, they sit with their backs
to the wall, cosy together as they chatter away about lives, eating
their tapas and drinking what looks like a jug of sangria. Round from
them a table of 30 somethings, blondes and brunettes, tall and short,
five women together and one boyfriend – when they leave the four women
leave first, the couple loitering a bit out of place at the back.

Dessert defeats me after three plates of tapas – lamb in a tomato
sauce, chicken and potato croquettes and the heavy bowl of chorizo
with black pudding (which keeps me awake through the night). But that
chocolate truffle is too much, too solid, too heavy, after everything
else, and I am forced to concede defeat. The manageress takes the
plates away, but pauses when she sees so much left, questioning
expression, words half on her lips. I’m full I admit, and it was very
heavy, it is she nods, satisfied, and removes the plate. One of the
waitresses goes through the motions of going home – the staff seem to
have a good rapport – she puts on a cardigan, a jacket, finds her bag,
says her good byes. We ask for the bill, and we step out into the
rain.

Refurbished

2010-04-06T21:47:00.001+01:00

We’ve gone to this Italian, we’ve been here a few times, but it’s been
refurbished since. The lighting is wrong which is frustrating, oh
sure, it’s fancy, but it’s wrong. And the main thing we are conscious
of as we go through the menu and order food. That done, we become more
conscious of those around us, at the next table there are five
Americans, behind us another two. There had been a bunch of guys in
the cinema bar where we’d met talking loudly about forthcoming films,
but also about an Irish dancing competition. From the conversation
amongst the Americans this is clearly what they are here for – talking
about dance studious, about their entry numbers, and the like. To my
right the table of five, a blonde woman, and perhaps her daughter,
flame haired and beautiful – there are plenty of attractive women out
there, but this girl has looks you can’t not look at. On the other
side a grey woman, then facing them the three women are two men, a
grey man and another man of an age with the blonde. The red head has a
card round her neck, presumably her entry details or something
official. She is the only one who has dessert, a conical kind of glass
bowl, with a stack of pink and brown ice creams, little sweet items
lumps on top, which she spoons into her mouth happily. The blonde and
the red leave, the rest of the table will catch them up, talk of
buses, and locations. Then the younger of the two guys, though still
old enough to have retired from the navy, starts talking with the guys
behind me, who I can’t see. They compare notes on navy careers, on
football appreciation, and then wish each other the best of luck for
the competition the next day and they leave as well.

Mono (The Band, not The Cafe)

2010-03-18T12:03:00.000Z

The support band are from Edinburgh. Two girls playing guitar, one of them singing. Accompanied by three guys, another guitarist, a bassist, and a drummer. The singer is cheerful, talks to the audience a bit between songs. The lead guitarist smoulders, the shorter of the two, but by far moodier. Playing her guitar, her central parted long hair hanging over her face. Once or twice she’ll catch the face of a friend in the crowd, and slowly, carefully, the determined little pout transforms, a smile blossoming, shy and warm, before she goes back to the business of rock!

There is a couple sitting at a table in the corner, to the right of the stage. He is bald, a little beard, glasses, looks thin, but fit with it. She is shorter, a little heavier, but in a feminine curvy way. He wears a caramel coloured jacket, jeans. She wears a burgundy top, with a lace style white short sleeved cardigan on top of that. On either side of them, the odd couple, the friends who have tagged along. The four are laughing, having a good time, photos are being taken. He is heavy, perhaps unfortunate looking (not a million miles from myself, in case anyone thinks I sound cruel), a worn black band t-shirt. She has a regal nose, curly shoulder length hair, a nice smile, a black top with a plunging neck (and I mean plunging!). As the photos are taken the band shirt guy makes a comment about the cleavage, she tugs at her top, buffs them up with pride. A few more photos taken, some more comments, culminating in him leaning across, hand on her knee, talking in her ear. It all seems good fun. But when he sits down, she looks uncomfortable, emotions mixing across her face, her arms across her chest, a little tug at the top to cover herself, a little squirming. Later when I look over she has gone, later again, when I’ve moved with the crowd, between support band and main band, and I spot her again, sitting beside band shirt, so whatever was said before must be forgotten. Though at the end of the night she is standing talking to the guy with the glasses, who she seemed to be more friends with than the others. I wonder about blind dates, a girl friend of the guy with glasses, set up with a guy friend of his girlfriend? Who knows and that’s the last I see of them.

With support band done the crowd moves, some go to the bar, some were friends of the support band, and I move closer to the stage. I don’t like this venue; there is something horrible about the light, too much red light, which my camera seems to particularly dislike, giving some dreadful results. I find myself standing beside a particularly petite girl, a couple of bags sitting on the floor by her feet, which seems a bit rude so close to the stage, especially since when her friend returns the pair stand in protective circle creating a dead space that close to the band. But it’s a fairly immobile audience, and they get away with it, mostly. It’s a strange night, I feel strangely disorientated, it seems like I am surrounded by people chattering away in Spanish and Japanese – though between the volume of music, and ear plugs for my own good, everything feels muffled and dislocated. The two girls with the bags are Spanish, though in some ways are polar opposites of each other. The first is wearing a little black dress, has her hair carefully cut in layers to striking effect, she is skinny, wearing striped green tights, flat shoes. She has her nose pierced, two small, delicate rings tight together through one nostril, she wears an extravagant black butterfly ring on her hand. She has an agitated, expressive face, bursting into quick grins, little gasps of joy at the music. Turning to her friend once or twice she brings thumb and forefinger together against her lips and kisses away, that curious expression of excellence that you sometimes see people make on TV. She brings out a chunky camera once Mono are on, reaching over other people’s heads, tilting the screen, so she can take pictures. A couple of times she jumps up and down with delight. Her friend stands there, a hooded top over an average looking blouse, her hair cut shorter, perhaps the feminine end of boyish. She stands with her hands in her jean pockets, nodding at her friends comments.

Like any gig these days there are a load of people with cameras. The Spanish girl, another short haired girl, the two of them vying for space once or twice. Then the pro, the guy who has the pass that says he is a photographer, not that it appears to grant him much benefit that anyone else standing there has. I take photos too, trying to get over that red light, waiting for other lights, trying different settings. Periodic arms reach by me, cameras wielded for quick shots. Then there is the guy in the green t-shirt, off to the side of the stage, came down after a compact crowd was already in place, and is annoyed about it. He stands there snapping away. Till midway, he plunges to the stage, seeming to physically grab a couple of young guys with long hair and shove them out of his way. The security guy stands back, off the side of the stage chewing gum, for him it’s a quiet night, and nothing comes of this guy acting like an ass. He goes back to where he was standing before, throwing his camera on the speaker top, grabbing his drink, growling at the world – how dare it get in his way. Towards the end of the set he comes back, this time aiming for mid-stage, brushing roughly by me, nearly tumbling over the girl’s bags, drawing dirty looks. He takes a few snaps, having shoved the folk that were standing there out of his road. Again that done he returns to his place, this time practically walking over the bags, this time bumping into me. The chippier of the two Spanish girls is waving her arms in the air, shouting at him. He gets back to where he was and glares back with that expression that says, come on, make something of it, I’ll fight you. Our attentions return to the band, ignoring this asshole.

Snack Bar

2010-03-17T18:40:00.001Z

We work on an industrial estate on the side of town. Once upon a time
we owned all of this land. But sold it off and rented it back in that
corporate way that makes sense to someone. Between our buildings there
is a crappy little, almost home made looking, canteen. A ragged little
place, which raises eyebrows when visitors first see it – not quite
believing the sign above “SNACK BAR”. When I worked in Innovation the
newest member of staff came round the building some time between
9-10am. Going from floor to floor, with a trolley full of rolls and
crisps and sweets. Shouting “SNACK BAR!” as she comes to a stop, and
people jostling to join the queue, to see if they can get there first.
She alternated the route, so if she’d been to a busy floor before
yours then the trolley would be bare by the time you got there. Now I
am based in Technology. Here we have a little “coffee shop” – tables
and chairs, automated coffee machine, it’s called Connections. In this
building instead of doing the trolley routine, the woman turns up with
a cart in Connections, and unloads on to the counter. She is there for
a half hour. There is an official time, from which people will start
to line up. Though some days, particular Mondays, the real time is a
different thing altogether. Again timing is everything. Come down too
late and you’ll find an empty metal tray, or perhaps one last cheese
roll.

The man in front of me is the Chinese guy; he is usually one of the
first here, before the woman arrives, on the occasions that I come
down early. He fumbles to try and help, trying to get the tray up from
the trolley on to the counter, while she picks out the drink cans that
are rolling around, and the cartons of milk, and lines them up. The
guy in front of him kind of steps into help out of embarrassment.
Sorted, then the first guy takes a roll and gets served. The Chinese
guy rakes through the tray, reading labels, twitching and shrugging,
making little frustrated noises as he fails to find what he is looking
for. Finally settles on a choice and gets served. I follow suit, in
the mood for a roll today, a packet of crisps.

The woman that does the snack bar is a character. Its one of those
jobs you probably need to be. She ends up knowing the regulars quite
well, exchanges gossip, the kids, the hassle. Last time I was down,
last week, there was a young guy in work overalls, teasing her about
the price of Cadbury Crème Eggs. But then he says she’ll not see him
for a while anyway, going down south for a bit he is. So she gives him
the Crème Egg, a going away present, then grabs a Mars bar, gives it
to his mate, since that was the last Egg.

Then we go from there to join the line at the coffee machine.
Selecting paper cups, sachets, plastic lids, wooden stirrers, sugar
packs from the drawer. We put them in, and get our drinks, while the
weary looking man from the company that supplies the machine sits and
looks on. An out of order sign sits at the side of the machine; he has
just retrieved an ugly looking internal component. He shrugs, its ok,
he didn’t expect such a rush, but its fine. I think he needs to
diagnostics or something, but the dozen people making coffee probably
cancel that out anyway. Its done 90,000 drinks, he announces, that is
5 years work, in 2 years, and it needed to be gutted!

Travel To Oslo

2010-03-14T16:28:00.002Z

In Prestwick airport. people in line for flight to Oslo. Seems half of them have too much baggage. Two women pay the excess. A mother, with two daughters, is playing the rearranging game. some people use the scales at free desks to test theirs before they join the line. A woman in her 50s dressed like she is in her 20s. knee high boots, crotch high dress. She flashes all and sundry as she bends over to man handle her case in the least lady like fashion imaginable. That combination of white knickers and the black gusset of tights, so much for modesty. a couple who look Norwegian shout after their 5 year old, trailing his own case, the head of a bear peeking out of a pocket on the case's front. as expected my case is practically empty and I'm done. time to grab lunch before flying. food ordered. food arrives. And I take bite. And the fire alarm goes off. Everyone out! What am I supposed to do? People are taking glasses. Maybe I should take my plate? That would be daft. But with no answer I grab the plate and head for the door. Of course its at that point I am told that I can't take it with me. So I turn round to put it back on the nearest table as another member of staff appears to tell me that I can't come back, I should get out. Idiots. I manage to get my plate down and get out. We are out there on a wet October afternoon, retreat to the car park to watch the vast amounts of nothing happening. The fire brigade turn up, look around, and leave again. The staff go in first. We are supposed to wait for longer. Imagine if you had been going to have something to eat, a woman laughs to her husband, I was I pipe up, it had just arrived. Finally they let us come back in, my plate has gone, though my Irn Bru is still sitting. I grab that and wonder through to the service counter, looking concerned and lost. The chef is standing by the bar talking to the bar man, he spots me and calls – we'll get a fresh one out to you as quick as we can! And I sigh with relief. Take the same seat and wait, watching the time, hoping that this hasn't entirely thrown my schedule off. Food arrives, I eat, I get through security, I get on the plane.

Haptic

2010-03-14T15:32:00.002Z

We are at the theater, catching something as part of the annual Review of Live Arts.I come here often, so many familiar faces that I see at all kinds of performances, though have never spoken to. The group of us are working our way out from the seats at the end of the show. I stop to let a group of girls get by on the stairs, then we are walking behind them. I am familiar with the blonde girl, firmly in the frequent attendee category, I'm sure I even saw her doing an installation piece once a number of years ago. One of the other girls, long dark hair, glasses with red frames, a grey dress, from the conversation its clear that she stayed at the flat of the third girl and the blonde girl the night before. This obviously had not been planned, she aplogises to the familiar girl, tall, skinny, short blonde hair - I borrowed a pair of underwear, hope you don't mind, I didn't go through all your stuff or anything, just grabbed a clean pair. The blonde smiles, yeah thats fine, no problem. The thing is, the girl says, continuing, you are quite a bit slimmer than I am, and, she waves a hand at the blonde girls ass, then at her own, I'm a bit chunkier. From which she explains that while its great to be wearing clean underwear, they don't actually fit her very well, and to be honest aren't very comfortable. But its ok, she will wash them. As we walk round the side of the seats, out into the lobby, the girl with the glasses seems to be actually lifting the front of her skirt, as though showing exactly which pair it is that she has borrowed, and I have to say to G that I'll explain what I am laughing about after we have left here.

Mother's Day (2)

2010-03-14T15:00:00.002Z

We are sitting at writing group, however many of us can manage to come along to the cafe on a Sunday afternoon. There is a woman at the table behind me, who is here every week, friends of the staff, perhaps more. Last week one of her friends sat and chattered for a while, she talked some about her family. Sitting this week a young man and woman appear at the top of the stairs to the mezzanine part of the cafe, where we tend to head because its quieter. They grin at each other - she is here! The woman looks up surprised, as they thrust a bunch of flowers at her. The girl mutters to the guy, you could at least have taken the price off them first. Embarrassed he jokes, I wanted her to know we didn't get cheap ones. And they sit down and chatter about what else they've been doing, the delays in getting here, having been struggling to find particular biscuits their mother likes. She jokes about them doing a hit and run, expecting them to leave again instantly now that they've delivered the flowers. But no, they tell her off, sit down and order coffees to spend some time with her.

Visiting the Doctor

2010-03-14T14:57:00.000Z

I got up out of bed, having been off work for a few days, and decided that today I had better sort that appointment to see the doctor. The previous day they shut early, so I hadn't been able to. Unfortunately this day it has decided to snow, and it is already a foot deep. I phone anyway, and they offer me an appointment 15 minutes from that point, I look at the snow and know I can't make that. So they give me an appointment in the afternoon instead. Fine. I leave early, the snow half way to my knee as i make my way to the car. Things are going fine, until I reach the hill leading to the local football ground, cars churning up and down from th estate. Each is struggling, and making things worse for everyone that follows. I manage to make a charge at it, getting 3/4 of the way up before i start to struggle, and I start to struggle. A man coming down the way draws beside me – where are you going – doctors – probably better walking it from here – but i can't just abandon my car at this point – he shrugs and drives away. i make a couple more feet of progress and have to stop to let a double decker bus go down by me. I phone the doctors, already late by this point, let them know i am on my way, i will be there as soon as I can. A lorry comes up behind me, four guys getting out and they push me passed the bad bit and I'm on my way again. I'm weaving along the road, steering as best I can, hoping breaks will behave, its difficult, the surface is all churned up. But by this point the schools are out, and the kids are just strolling across the road, regardless of traffic. A half dozen kids are too close in front of me, i start shouting to get them out the way, afraid I'll try and brake and loose control. So they start throwing snow balls at me. Getting nearer the doctor's building the car park is snowed out, the road is mobbed with parents picking up younger children from the primary school, I end up having to just about abandon the car. I apologise for being late, sit for 10 minutes, see the dotor for 10 minutes, everything sounds ok. Get back into the car and it takes an hour to get home as well, the hill down by the football ground is fine going down, but its like a U shape, and coming back up the other side I get stuck again. Once home, the snow is too deep to get car back to where it was parked, I try to dig myself some space, but its not happening, so end up having to abandon it at an odd angle, mostly, enough, off the road.

Mother's Day

2010-03-14T14:15:00.001Z

It is mother's day here today. So the morning is a bit of a family thing. My parents, my sister and her husband and kids. The floor is plastered with toys, with books, and the like. In one corner a blue teddy bear, and in the other a pink one, both showing the wear of age. My sister stands up and announces that she is going to the toilet. My niece shouts that she is too, and goes running for the door, my sister grabbing her, scooping her up and handing her to my brother-in-law. At which point my nephew shouts that he is going as well, and makes a dash for the gap. My sister wrestles with her son, in which time her daughter gets free again, and the pair go charging through the door. My sister shrugs, closes the door and sits back down again. Neither of them need, they'll be right back, and they are. My nephew becomes distracted by his dad, going through a pack of trump cards, my niece distracted by my dad and a board game. My sister stands and without saying a word this time, she leaves the room.

Will You Miss Me?

2010-02-07T19:25:00.001Z

A couple come into the sushi place and sit in the booth across the belt from me. He is in a pin striped suit, short hair; glasses and what looks like an unfortunate shave. She is tall and the word willowy comes to mind. She has long blonde hair, tied back, large gold hoop earrings. She is dressed much more casually. bench zip up top, which she tugs down, I get a glimpse of something as she leans over, trying to decide if she is wearing little beneath, or if its a flesh coloured t-shirt, I don't look too hard, so remain unsure. She wears grey trousers, which seem reasonably smart, work suitable. It’s that kind of time, we've all come from work and stopped into eat on our way to where ever – I am going to see film at GFT one I’ve eaten. He puts his phone on the table, and she grabs it and starts accessing things straight away. He sighs, wistfully, jokingly, now I have no secrets from you. Secretly he sounds pleased, though one has to doubt he ever had secrets from her at all, given his persistent eagerness.

Almost immediately he is grabbing food from the belt like an experienced veteran, slapping them down on the table in front of her – try this it looks interesting, you want some salmon? He bombards her from that point on. Whatever she wants isn't there, so he slams he button for assistance. The waiter arrives and they order some things. He asks about the interesting thing – its squid – he can't get it back on the belt quick enough. He continues with the chatter, too eager, to her monosyllabic responses. Its one of those things that is frequently the case with couples, you can often hear one of them much louder than the other. But she really is non committal to everything he says. She looks bored, reluctant. The next thing he has the staff back, asking for cutlery instead of chopsticks, so much for his air of having a clue. The waitress suggests that they don't have cutlery, but they do have these thick pieces of wood which are chopsticks for beginners and easier to use – they make do with those after they are shown how to use them.

Will you miss me, he asks, when you go? No response. We’ll be apart for a month, how will I survive? He asks, she looks at the belt. She does say a little, but it is a little and it is quietly. I am quite skint just now, he tells her, but its OK, I get paid next week. Response is limited. I am quite skin, he repeats, what with Christmas, buying you all those lovely presents... your flights home. But its OK, I get paid next week, again repetition, so I will have saved up by the time you got back, and we can have a lovely valentines. She sits munching as their order arrives, hunched shouldered.

He picks up his 3rd serving of gyoza from the belt, she screws up her face, he shrugs, I like them, she picks at fruit salad. I’ll miss you, count the days you are gone, a second attempt to get any indication that she feels anything at all for him. She doesn't look at him, pops a grape in her mouth. We can chat on yahoo? He suggests as though trying to console her, though the desperation in his tone cancels that out a little, she neither confirms nor denies the chances of this happening and sighs.

They are getting ready to leave; he is getting ready to pay, when suddenly two other girls appear, sliding into the booth beside them. As with the girl he was with they are clearly foreign, vague sense of coming from somewhere in Eastern Europe, though this pair are darker skinned than the first girl, but they are clearly friends. They start picking things off the belt, as I’m finishing myself and getting up to leave, as I walk passed them I can't help but think he'll end up paying for them as well.

Waitress

2010-01-26T20:23:00.000Z

Most of the waitresses here are foreign, some vague accent that
suggests a more Easterly part of Europe, names that start with K
instead of C and the like. But the little blonde one is local, could
be described as plain compared to some of the more exotic beauties, or
the wiry tattooed ones. She is petite, straight forward, at least one
assumes. Tonight she is trying to show other wise. Half her hair is in
braids, patches of black mixed in with the blonde. Through a pinch of
skin at the back of her neck a piercing, two balls on either side of
the raised flesh. Then, on her wrist, a stud gem - not seen that
before, and I kind of stare at it at every opportunity, trying to work
out how that works - I mean I can't see the other end, for it to be a
piercing I expect another end. Oh well, its a new one to me. Having
asked for another glass of water from two different waitresses, she
finally gets the job and delivers it after I've already finished
eating. I smile and say thanks, glancing again at that gem on the back
of her wrist.

Mimic

2010-01-26T20:22:00.000Z

A woman and her daughter go round the supermarket together. She leaves
the trolley at the end of an aisle and nips down to grab something
from a shelf. She reaches pulls out a tin. Her daughter reaches pulls
out air. She walks back to the trolley, her daughter careful to follow
every footstep, to try and adopt the same posture. The woman is
scowling as she places the tin in the trolley, her daughter
practically pushing her out the way so she can place her tightly held
handful of nothing beside the first tin. Stop that, her mother says.
Stop that, the daughter echoes. The mother tries again, the daughter
copies. Ok, she offers, if you want we'll put your pens back - a
packet of coloured felt tipped pens sit on top of a cereal box. Ok,
the daughter strays towards the edge, if you want we'll put your pens
back. The mother shrugs, the daughter shrugs, the mother lifts the
pens out of the trolley to put them on the shelf where they stand, the
daughter relents, please, no. The mother goes to get something else.
Can we get a packet of these? The daughter indicates a packet of
chocolate biscuits, I miss the reply, but its clearly no. The daughter
tips the packet into the trolley - oops, they've fallen in on their
own, I guess we'll just need to buy them. The mother sighs, its one of
those days clearly - put them back. I go down another aisle, leaving
them behind.

In Memory Of?

2010-01-25T19:40:00.000Z

I've parked in the car park where the ticket costs £5 for 24 hours,
one of those deals where the car can happily be left there and you
don't have to worry. We parked there just before 11am, and its about
9pm when we return. The car park is now mostly empty, a few cars, as
usual, scattered around. There is a mobile police station just at the
exit to the car park, which throws me, because it kind of makes it
more difficult to get out, given where it is placed. As I ease round I
spot the flowers at the base of the lamp post, the cards. Someone died
here.

This time the week before. I was out with other people, out for S's
birthday, we were up at "gourmet burger" place in Ingram Street,
before coming down to Mono for a drink or two. It was probably, more
or less, the same time when we left there to call it a night. I was
bemused then to see a police van parked across the road, blocking
traffic. As we walked towards the corner, we spotted another police
van blocking the other end. Between, a man on the road, spread eagled.
Two people in bright yellow jackets crouched by his side, one pumping
at his chest. There are a couple of people standing, at the lamp post,
the one where the flowers are now, looking distressed, like they are
about to cry. Across the road, outside the 13th Note, a group of
people smoking outside the pub, watching what is going on. Then
another couple of officers, surrounding another man.

The woman pumping at the chest turns round, shouts - mouth piece,
anyone got a mouth piece!? One of the officers at the Note shouts he
has one, tells people to support the other man, and as he steps away
we can see blood running down his face, the man looking dazed. We only
pause a moment, nothing we can do, trains to catch, police on the
scene. We move on, leave it all behind us.

It had already happened by the time we came out, whatever it was that
had happened. A car accident? A disagreement gone horribly wrong? We
don't know. But a week later I learn that the man died here, that the
police have their mobile incident room - did you see anything? Do you
know anything? They wait for answers, across the road from the
makeshift memorial.

Howl's Moving Castle

2010-01-25T19:36:00.002Z

Saturday morning at the GFT is kid's morning, they show a film for a cheap rate aimed at kids. It is a classic thing, in the past kids used to be able to pay in for the price of an empty jam jar, but that is a thing from my parent's generation. Friends up from London, S and D, and looking for things to do, I spot that Howl's Moving Castle is this week's choice. So we meet L and A there, and the five of us go to see the film.

When we arrive there is quite a queue, more than I had really thought to expect, and for a moment I wonder whether we'll actually get in. But we do get tickets, and even for adults the price is a good incentive, coming as a nice surprise to us all. The film is in Screen 1, though there is a large group of children waiting beside the corridor to Screen 2, so for a moment I am unsure which screen it is on. But it turns out they are only standing there to keep track of them all.

The GFT is one of the few surviving old cinemas in Glasgow, it celebrated it's anniversary last year, though the previous cinema it took over from was even older than that, which makes it even more interesting. Its small, it only has the two screens, it tends to show world films and indie films, for the most part - though definitions aren't a clear cut thing.

A and I go to the gents before the film starts, when we come out there is no sign of the girls. Have they gone to the ladies? Have they gone in? We wait a moment, half expecting them to emerge. Then shrug and decide we will go in and find them inside, but in that moment the biggest group of children has appeared and they get in front of us. The girls are inside, and have taken seats, and though none of them have been here before they have taken what I judge to be the best seats in the screen. Unfortunately, to a degree, we also now have two rows of small children right behind us.

The audience is a mix, as one might expect for Miyazaki film. There are a couple of big guys with beards who sit down the front. A girl with a tight pink OSAKA t-shirt bounces down the steps, sashays out of the hall, comes back with a strolling girl in a hat with cat ears, with dangling bits which provide chunky cat gloves with claws, and the pair join a row of 20-somethings up the back. A Japanese man arrives with two children, a boy and a girl, and they sit at the end of our row, one on either side of him. A pair of Japanese girls arrive, teenagers, one with glasses, one without.

Waiting for the film to start the children are restless. One boy in particular shouts out - this film is boring! Isn't it boring? He looks for support, deliberately trying to be funny since nothing has happened yet, while also telegraphing the fact he is in fact bored. However the film starts soon enough, accompanied almost immediately by a mass of rustling sounds as dozens of bags of sweets are simultaneously opened. As black gloopy monsters roam the screen I wonder what they will make of it all. But there are constantly little things that have the whole audience laughing.

The group behind us is obviously an organised event. I'm not sure what kind of group, but obviously parents arrive, drop off their kids, and leave them to the designated adults to take care of. As such, in what is apparently the way of these things these days, kids arrive at all kinds of times. So that even once the film has started there are stragglers arriving, and all fitting themselves somehow into the row behind us. Adults having conversations, issuing instructions - you, pass the drink to that boy that just arrived. One adult suggests they should make less noise, another says something like well its a film for kids, they'll just need to understand we are going to make noise! To a degree this is true, though 15 minutes into the film might be pushing it.

At one point the Japanese man heads out - I don't notice him going, I guess to the toilet, to make a call? But his daughter gets restless, obviously not liking his absence, her brother trying to calm her, to encourage her to sit back down again. Just before she starts to get worked up, the father returns, and everything is fine again. One of the women with the big group announces - does anyone else need the toilet? And she works her way out with a handful of little boys.

Sometimes seeing films where there are a lot of kids it can end up being quite off putting. But actually, once they are settled down, the kids are all pretty well behaved. In fact they kind of make the experience, a comedy dog running around and they all laugh and giggle. The enjoyment is contagious and we are all getting into the fun of the experience.

Calling it an early night.

2010-01-22T20:59:00.001Z

We’ve come out from the noodle place, its just past seven on a Friday night. Its been a good day, easy going, but we're all tired, so we're calling it an early night for now. The fog that had been haunting the area round my work has crept into the city centre, giving everything a haze. Not the only thing which changes the mood of the city. Three people walk closely behind our group, eventually slipping by, chattering and shouting the whole time. There is a couple and their friend, the friend making the bulk of the noise, though both of the guys are happy to shout and swagger and be threatening. That window, he shouts, indicating the supermarket fronting, smashed and cracked, we did that last weekend didn’t we! The girl turns, shush, you can go the jail for that, don’t be stupid. How about Primark, he responds, let do their window now, we’ll get you a dress! We’re walking slower, so they continue on. We get to the corner with Argyle Street, there is so much noise, kids howling and screaming at each other towards Central Station, carrying on, out to enjoy themselves, cause a little trouble. We turn away, towards Argyle Street station, making plans for the morning as we split up. As we stop a hard looking man steps up, calling, loudly, EXCUSE ME! Can you help me out with something? We pause, silent, waiting to hear what he is going to ask, though inevitably it will be money. He drags the moment out, before saying, I’m homeless, can I have some money for food? L engages him conversation, about how she might have given him food if she had any, but not money. He seems only interested in money. We split up here, they go for their train, we return to my car, so I can drop them off at their hotel. We walk behind an old couple, moving slow motion, smoke wafting back from them both, before we get by and into the car park, a mostly empty space by now, the fog thicker here, so the whole thing feels particularly weird. I drop them at their hotel, and on the drive home the fog just keeps getting worse, the world disappearing.

Paris - Return

2010-01-21T21:23:00.000Z

As if to prove that Paris is a time eating monster we arrive back in
the city at 10am, an early departure from Lyon and falling asleep on
the train. By the time we get from Garre de Lyon to Garre de Nor and
get our bags stowed in left luggage, its gone noon. What did we do?
One station, to another, though getting tickets was time consuming,
and the lack of signs to luggage, or at least correct signs hinder.

What do you want to do with our day in Paris, I asked her. I want to
do stuff, to shop, to go to Muji, she tells me. I want to go to
Mariage Freres, so I suggest we hit the Marais, knowing that we will
find both there. The old routine, out with the pocket map, and tracing
lines. We pick a station, get out there, straight away I spot my first
space invader of the day, though there are more to come. Its across
the road and I want a picture from here, but a lorry gets in the way,
we wait, but the lorry makes a real meal of the manoeuvre. Did you get
an address for Muji, she asks, concerned that we’ll get lost. My
memory is that its hard to miss, but I’ve texted someone in the know,
though my assurance is that we will find it by zen navigation and not
to worry. We turn a corner, and I point, what, she asks, there, on the
corner, the red sign? Muji! And as expected, we find it without
guidance. We go in, and she struggles to side how much to buy, I’m not
devout myself – my bag is from here, from that New Year trip when I
had luggage issues, a good bag I use still and every day.

After that we have lunch, we pick a café across the road from Muji,
discussing how depending on time maybe we’ll check out the falafel
place we’d been to on New Year’s Day. We ask for a menu, he points at
the chalk board on the wall, a handful of things, we look at each
other and shrug, both ordering the chicken salad. The food looked good
from what we were seeing other people eat, but the place leaves a
little to be desired – the plank of wood put up on the wall behind
her, the holes cut for cables, gaping holes, wires dangling
worryingly. Mounted above that are three mirrored frames, with light
fittings, only one of which looks anything like functional. The food
arrives, and it is good, decent portion, pretty edible. Outside there
is one parking space, well a space big enough for a car even if it’s
not a legal space. These big Mercedes jeep things take turns parking
there, and they each must have parking sensors, given the metal
bollards along the pavement edge, that they get within a hair’s width
of, but never hit. The first guy is an older guy, looks like the
clichéd used car sales man, slumped shoulders, camel coat, I think
they call it. He is here and gone. Next one is a couple of Jewish
guys, one of the things the Marais is known for – having been hit on
by a Greek guy in the street the last time I was in the area, I can
tell you what the other thing is. They sit there in the car, with the
skull caps, and the curled hair, chatting to each other. One of them
has a camcorder, which he uses to film the street. They climb out, and
film up and down, there is nothing touristy about this, much more
intent and deliberate, which is what I find odd about the whole thing.
She points out, it’s a British vehicle, I hadn’t noticed, the steering
wheel is on the other side, she says, and of course to me it’s exactly
where I’d expect it.

After lunch, our next mission is to find the tea shop. This is
trickier, the picture in my head of the street, it matches too many of
the winding side streets. It’s a maze in some small way. The last time
I tried to find it using my map, I ended up in the other branch, the
one across the river, that’s the one that’s listed. But we check the
map, perhaps this one is still shown, it is, so we are tracing
streets, and wandering – back this way, along this one, down that one,
that sign there, no the next. Along the way, another couple of space
invaders, and a stencil of someone holding a pink balloon, I take
pictures of about a half dozen of those along the pavement, along the
road. I take a look at all the teas, and as usual I can’t decide where
to start. So I suggest we sit in, have tea, after all we are both
tired and the real aim of the day is to take it easy before she goes
back to Greece and I to Scotland.

Its an old colonial type of place, like a time warp. Waiters in white
suits, open spaces, palm leaves. A menu full of teas, laid out by
country for your exploratory needs. We decide to go with the cake
deal, a couple of bits of cake to go with our tea. We get big pots,
she gets red tea, I get blue, clad in mirrored shells round the pot to
keep them hot. We eat cake, chat, and watch the people, but soon
enough we are full, too soon after lunch, full of cake, and full of
tea, and shifting leads to discomfort. Perhaps we’ll give the falafel
a miss. By now its getting towards three, my flight is a bit earlier
than hers, but we’ve decided to head out to CDG together, and to allow
plenty of time for the monster city to consume and not be delayed. Of
course, when we get back to the station, grab our bags, and head for
the train, we get an express, and are there in no time.

We both manage to get checked in, but are kind of under whelmed by
this part of the airport – where are the shops, the cafés? Do we take
the minimum option or go through security and hope that we can hang
out in sprawling luxurious departure lounge till we need to go in
opposite directions for completely different gates. We go with the
departure area, but there is nothing there, its just a lead way to
your next part, with no return. So that’s how it ends, forced to say
our goodbyes, head through our gates and wait alone till take off.
Though I think we are both ok with that, both tired, both with books
to read, and happy to take a seat, put our feet up, and wait for our
flights to be called.

Paris - Outbound.

2010-01-21T21:22:00.000Z

Paris is one of those old cities, one of those sprawling cities. One
of those cities which is a monster, inevitably eating time. I arrive
from Beauvais, and like every time I do I swear I’ll never travel that
route again. Landed about 5, its closer to 9 by the time I check in to
the hotel. The train station, from hard earned experience is close to
the bus station, even if I got totally thrown off by following a bunch
of lazy tourists to the nearest taxi rank the 1st time I tried this
out. But even once in the station its that trick of deciphering the
ticket machine, I’m sure it was clearer the last time I was here, I am
sure I managed to do it myself. Eventually I have to give in, stumble
through a conversation with the guy at the ticket desk. Even then,
ticket in hand, its one of those layered stations, where you need to
spiral down the labyrinth, go through tunnels before you get to the
platform you actually want. And somewhere along that trip down,
through gateways, my ticket gets all glitchy, there is a massive queue
at the ticket machine here (how did they get to this level without
one?), and no one at this ticket desk. Fortunately someone appears,
and I try to explain the problem, he lets me through, and it seems to
be solved from there. For my next trick I get on the line and go the
wrong way, now that is a first, I guess flustered by the ticket
incident I got turned around, or something. I have to get off as soon
as I realise, and cross over, and board again, and back again. And of
course, somewhere along the way, change to another line, a different
colour, a different number.

At last I arrive at the station that is nearest the hotel that I am
looking for, stagger into the street with a bag which seems to have
tripled in weight since I packed it that morning. I come to the corner
and already I’m wandering if booking almost the cheapest room I can
get, since I’m only here a night, has actually been a bad idea. There
are a lot of men standing around, groups of men, loitering, smoking,
looking around, watching everyone, as though waiting for something to
happen. Something I have no idea about. Weaving through, I get up a
side street and find the hotel easily. It actually looks ok from the
outside, but then appearances, and all that. I get checked in, and
have four flights of stairs to climb. The room is basic, serviceable,
I drop my bag, but my first question is – where are the power points?
I’d gotten half way to the airport before realising my phone needed
charged, it had been a busy week, and I hadn’t really thought how much
I’d used the thing. However, there aren’t any power points. I’m moving
furniture around with an increasing incredulity. Not a single power
point! This isn’t good. I perhaps have friends to meet tonight, or if
not then we are certainly meeting in the morning. I recall spotting a
power point on the stair well, on the landing, at the opposite end
from where my room is. I get into my luggage, I get out the charger,
and adaptor. I open the door, and I listen, trying to gauge whether
anyone is about, who is in rooms, what movement can I hear, what
conversation? I creep across the landing and plug in the phone.
Charging. Well. That’s something. But I can’t leave it here, in the
middle of the corridor, and I can’t wait here, not long enough to get
a full charge. Its one of those places where the lights go off after a
while, where the one switch lights up the entire stair well. So either
the light is on, and everyone knows about it, or I’m standing in
darkness, and someone gets a hell of a fright when they come out their
room.

I decide I’ll try the toilet. Its one of those places with a communal
toilet on each stair well, yes, I really broke the bank here. I push
my phone into the corner, trying to make it as unobvious as possible
for the quick moment. I close the door, and turn around, and around,
there is no light. The toilet is tiny, there is no light, but hey,
there is a window, with no glass, so its open to the outside, in
December. Great. Through the course of the night I steal moments of
electricity. Five minutes at a time, standing in the dark. And this
way my phone carries on long enough to send some messages, to take
some calls and to get me up in the morning. And that lets me get out
for a while.

I’m just along the road from Montmartre, Sacre Couer, that kind of
thing, I figure I’ll take a walk along, see how it is at night, maybe
take some pictures. Along the street, more strange groups loitering.
Clubs opening, gigs starting, night life of a Thursday night getting
lively. Find the street that leads up, I can see the lit up building
up there, little shops along the way, tourist things, nick nacks.
Another thing I realised, while waiting for the train to the airport,
wind blowing, I’d forgotten my hat. So when I spot a shop selling red
woolly hats I check them out. Maybe. I continue up the way, glancing
at other shops. At the end of the street I find myself disappointed,
the gates are closed to the grass and stairs, and the place is
deserted. I take a couple pictures and turn back. I stop at the first
shop again, a red woolly hat, for only 3 euro, to play substitute for
the duration of the trip. Deal. I wander in, pleased the place is
still open, while others are pulling down shutters. A handful of
Italian girls buy trinkets before I get served, I hand over the coins,
and thank him, then my sleeve catches on a box of lighters and sends
them crashing to the floor. We agree that I’ll let him deal with them,
and leave with my apologies, watching my feet as I go, knowing that it
is definitely ones of those days.

I decide to head further along, beyond Anvers, towards Pigalle,
conscious as I do of its reputation. The thought in my head at the
same time that I really should eat something, when a menu outside a
café bar catches my eye – its in English, which is an immediate help,
since, of course, I also forgot to bring one of my phrase books
(though at least I had my map!). The duck with blueberries and
potatoes catches me eye, so I go in and that’s what I order. I sit and
read the book I’ve been carrying with me all day, Chris Beckett’s
“Marcher”, and eat the duck, thinly sliced, smothered in the brown
sauce which has the little berries in it, with a generous portion of
thinly sliced potatoes, cooked in garlic butter, with a side of green
beans. There are groups of 20 somethings sat outside, with cool
haircuts, cigarettes, little jugs of wine, and blankets. There is a
couple at the next table who return after a cigarette, surprised to
see my appearance since they went out, and as far as I can tell
looking at my food with a jealousy that quickly makes them order their
own. There is tall waiter, long dark hair, receding at the front, tied
at the back, two waitresses – one 20 something the other 30 something,
the difference showing in more than years - hair styles and clothes.
After dinner I have a coffee, forgetting that it’ll be one of those
absurd tiny cups that won’t last me a page, let alone a chapter, but
shrug when it arrives. And the phone rings, and it’s at that point I
realise just how loud the place is, the background chatter, the low
hum of music. So I leave my stuff at the table and step outside,
having to retreat a little up the side street before I can actually
hear. The call I’ve been waiting for, we arrange to meet at the
station nearest to them, a place I know from past trips. I return, I
pay, I leave.

Back into the underground once more. Pocket map out of the pocket,
tracing coloured lines for intersections Pigalle to Grenelle. When I
emerge at the other end, on this so familiar cross roads, its raining.
We spent New Year here, a group of us, a few years before, there is a
café here, one across the road, we spent several mornings in those,
including a solemn New Year’s Day. I can’t see them, start to text
while standing under the awning, but they spot me first, them having
gone unseen with their hoods up to shelter against the weather. Its
late, we’re all tired from travels, but we go in here, remembering
when we last here, who was here that last time, and we order 3 pots of
tea and chatter for an hour or so. Form plans for the morning, out to
the airport to pick up arrivals, have lunch, then hit the road. And we
call it a night, retracing my route back to Pigalle, might as well
walk rather than change line again for two stops. Another 10 minutes
in the corridor charging, then into bed, the room is fine enough, for
what it is, and I’ll be out early come morning.

Return To Latte Wall

2009-11-27T21:38:00.003Z

Its Saturday lunch time and we are meeting in the latte wall place again, at noon. But I need to park first. The only option that isn't going to ruin my day is the 24 hours for a fiver, but at this time of year, whatever weeks from Christmas everyone else is thinking the same thing. We drive around in circles. some people forgetting traffic goes both ways, some people making dreadful manoeuvres an one can't help but wait for a dreadful accident to happen. It’s hitting one in one out levels, and I patiently let a few people out, letting the people that got there first from the other side take the space. My turn will come, and it does, soon enough. Even if the van I have to let out first nearly makes me lose it and the guy behind is determined to drive through me.

I walk from the car park to the latte wall. A five minute walk, more or less. And on every street and every stretch and every corner, I see traffic wardens. Out in force. They walk from car to car. Checking every single one of them for parking violations. I’m glad I got that 24 hour parking covered, ticket guaranteed other wise on a day like this. I make it to the cafe, only two of the guys here so far, so i order brunch. Lily from the other night is the only member of staff from the previous night. She is still wearing too much make up, that light brown hair tied back again, that glint of a stud in her upper lip. This time there is a new girl and lily is telling her what to do at every stage. Skinny girl, short blonde hair, really bleached, a white ribbon bow tagged on side of her head. She has a nose ring, skinny plain black shirt, with no sleeves that some how makes her stronger and more capable, blue jeans, trainers, much more casual than lily.

Perhaps more boyish, but probably more interesting in the end, for all that. You put the pie in the oven. You wash the plate like this. A steady stream of instruction. The girl is easy and gets on with it, not got the same competitive edge lily seemed to have.

A family come in. Maybe 3 generations. Sit round a table. Wait for a little while to get everything and they are gone in no time. Replaced by two Scandinavian girls, tall thin, blonde, chattering in their language. The taller stands and stares at me for a moment, while she takes her jacket off. Maybe trying to read my shirt? Though, the latte wall is above my head, so maybe it’s not me at all? A dark haired girl comes in, sits at the table between us and the Scandinavians. Something about her suggests to me that she is a dancer, though the lines on her face suggest that she looks a little older than she is, certainly she is dressed younger. Umbrella, puffy jacket. Jeans, shoes with thick soles, a cardigan and blue t-shirt. A hair band, thick and black holding her hair in place. As she goes back to the bar to collect her coffee i spot the number of piercings in her ears, the bolt through the back of her neck – been a while since I saw one of those.

There is a couple at the other end of the bench i am sitting on. She goes off somewhere, he is shaven headed, well wrapped for the weather, even though they've been sitting inside for a while. I’m wearing my “breath deep and let go of things” t-shirt which just arrived in the post yesterday. The shaven headed man leans forward and asks where I got it, so I try and explain the whole history of t-shirt of Adam Greenfield doing his version based on the previous versions. He asks whether he is a Buddhist, talks about the wheel of dharma on the t-shirt, asks if i am a Buddhist, admits that he is. We talk about science, a bit about religion, about how those fit into Buddhism. Then he smiles, tells me he'll let me get back to my writing, with the warning that I can expect these types of conversations wearing this kind of t-shirt. I can take that, I tell him.

Saturday is obviously busy. There are more staff all the time. Soon there are abut 8 of them. Maybe it’s a shift change? An older woman, a red lanyard round her neck suggests that she is a manager, she is in a flap, wandering around, clutching paper, presumably making sure everything is ship shape. There is a floppy haired 20 something; the hair dyed a kind of burgundy. When they come in I am sure it is a skinny floppy haired guy, a customer, but jacket shucked, behind the bar, serving people, clearly a member of staff. Tattoos in a circle round the neck line, round the collar, glimpsed, stars, the usual 5 pointed ones, and the sci fi flare ones. From the manner, the voice calling out orders being delivered, I start to realise it’s actually a girl.

The Scandinavian girls are replaced by a couple. He sits on the bench, in the corner, she sits balanced on the wooden chair, and they drink coffee, and read the Saturday paper and don't talk to each other. He sits back, his arms spread, flat out along the back of the chair, sitting there like he is king of the world. His stubbled shaven head, the hint of Saturday casual shirt collar beneath the smart casual jumper, with its little breast motif for brand. She sits in brown greys, layers that are different colours, but of such similar shades they all blend together. Dirty blonde hair, pearls round her wrist, those ugly brown ugg boots which seems too popular. He stares over her head, before shrugging going back to reading supplements and she decides to call someone, sitting side on to him, her phone held to her ear.

It’s funny how things work. There is a father and daughter come in. and they were here before, the first time i was in here this year, over a week ago. Now there is a girl and her friend at the bar. She has an olive skinned face, her hair in a certain style, a quick pretty smile. This is third version of her i have seen today. The hair lengths have just been slightly different, a little lock of hair here or there. but other than that, they were nearly identical, enough that I’ve had to double take the people just arriving who look like people i haven’t seen leave. I look up after another while, ok, this one is skinnier, more drawn and older, but certainly stamped from the same mould, children clinging to her coat tails.

Lily comes back from her tea break, the androgynous kid with tattoos by her side, lily spouting forth “well that’s what i think” and i can imagine her being opinionated and not afraid to make sure people know it. A couple have taken the table where the “dancer” was sitting; she arrived first, got herself tea. He arrives and phones her to find out where she is sitting. She can't understand why they can't see each other, after all these are the first seats you come to when you enter, but they are kind of tucked under the stairs to the mezzanine level. After an extended conversation they work it out and he comes over to join her. They exchange enthusiastic pleasantries, the kind of friends, but not lovers, the tone and phrasing says this. Then they both get out pocket note pads. He is scribbling rectangles on the page; they compare notes and drink tea. There is the university just round the corner, one of the colleges a bit further along. There are weekend classes, and the like, my boss having spent last weekend in this very uni for his night classes. Fragments of conversation drift over, we'll make this one red, a strong red, this bit we'll have in black and white, see I really like your bit, its got that kind of shouty feel to it. There is a church, i try and visualise, right next door, I suspect, which has been converted into the Ramshorn theatre, which is run by Strathclyde University. I saw a student production of “of mice and men” in their once. He stands up, goes for more drinks, and I get a better look at the jars that have been sitting on the table, they have one each – one of blackberry jam, the other looks like chocolate. and something in my head clicks, getting a better look at the scribbles, and realise that they have drawn jars, the lines show squares within rectangles as a label, the line across the top is the lid. They must be doing some kind of business project, come up
with the perfect slogan for selling jam.

Someone asks the new girl where the toilets are, typically British, “excuse me, where are the loos?” they are upstairs, she tells the woman, who turns and goes upstairs, then she thinks and says to one of the guys she is working with “the loos are upstairs aren't they?” he nods.

Maybe we should start with a close up of the jar? Just like the label? Then it’s about set up, about where to buy labels. funny how voices carry differently, he is sitting closer but i can't hear a word he says, but her voice is higher, cuts cleaner through the low playing music, the hum of other chatter. While with the new couple who have taken the table from A and C who have gone to watch the rugby, I can hear his voice but not hers.

Lily leaves, her shift done. Funny how clothes make a person. How every member of staff is pretty much in casual black, with maybe jeans or black trousers. But that I'm going home now layer says so much more. The hooded top, the handbag, coupled with the make up she has been wearing marks her as being more trendy than the other girls. the jam couple leave soon after, he makes a comment, she says sorry, but her parking ticket will run out. he heads upstairs for the toilet after they've had a hug, her having to stand on tip toes to reach round his neck. she returned the jam to her bag, had to prompt him to take his jar, him nearly having walked away without it.

A while after lily's departure new girl's shift is finished, she reappears with a cool jacket and a scarf, and a big loose bag. she potters about, asking about shifts, getting some change, a coffee, taking her time to leave. she talks to the girl who was on the first night we were in here, the tall one with the pony tail, who asks her if she has any friends who might want a job as well. in the doorway, she pulls up her hood, takes a mouthful of coffee, then out into the dark, into the rain, shift done.

I’m getting to that point I’ve been writing too long, getting restless, but too early for the theatre tonight. people have come and gone in the group. a pair of Thai girls arrive, they order coffees and cakes. and the first thing they do on sitting down is take pictures with their brightly coloured and flowery camera phones. I can't help but smile, and say how much I just love being part of a generation where the first thing they do with food is take a picture of it. changed times.

The Latte Wall

2009-11-19T21:35:00.000Z

I am waiting for my sandwich to be toasted, when the guy who served me comes to the delivery end of the bar where a girl is making a latte. He is tall, floppy haired, looks incredibly young, though as he gives the girl advice it is clear he is a veteran of this establishment, and she has yet to conquer the latte wall. She is probably only a few years older than him, hair tied back, nose stud, smart/generic black blouse. She does the coffee and prepares to add the milk, no, hold it at this angle, he tells her, down low, touch the surface, that’s how you get it. She follows his instruction carefully, and gets the desired results, see, told you it was easy. She stands there and looks at it and grins, I’d been holding it too high, and that’s how someone else told me how to do it. As she straightens up and does a little victory stretch, her blouse rides up at her waist, providing a flash of colour on her hip, a flower, a lily on a pad, the kind of tattoo you expect her to have a matching one on the other side. She prepares to tip the coffee out, you should take a photo, she shakes her head, its not quite perfect, but a start. You should at least drink it, he tells her, she shakes her, you could add sugar, he suggests. Do you want it, she asks, he doesn't. I’m tempted to say I’ll take it, but don't, and it gets tipped away. He goes back to the toasting machine, takes the next customer's sandwich and puts it in the toaster. Brings mine over on a plate, shouts out that it’s ready, despite the fact I’m standing right in front of him, he looks through me. That’s mine, I say, ok, he replies, you have your drink, he asks, no, it’s on the counter behind you. He grabs it, puts them both on a tray and I go back to join my friends. Sitting down I spot the latte wall, a series of photographs of lattes, each with someone's name penned beneath it. The new girl wanders around, clearing tables, chunky boots, skin tight trousers, no doubt waiting till she is ready to get her latte up there.

YOU

2009-11-11T10:43:00.000Z

“YOU” the makeshift envelopes say. Every time. I’ve found 3 so far. I wonder how many I’ve missed. The last couple have been little brown paper bags, kind you’d maybe get with buying a postcard. The lip folded over, stapled shut. A stamp over it “YOU”, and this latest one the picture of a bird, a swallow or something. I think the last one had something, but can’t remember what. Each time I’ve found them its been in Mono – the vegan café bar, along the shelf with flyers and booklets, along that front edge between the Mono bar part and the Monorail record shop part. I had to push by the table football table, with its glass top, and its cigarette burns from years before. We sit at the table all night, the brown paper envelope sitting under the book I was reading before A arrived, with the others after him. When I get home, I tear it open, and it starts like all the other “Dear You”. It’s a letter, hand written, with scribbles, and scores, and spelling mistakes, just as it was intended, an A4 lined sheet of paper, torn out, and photocopied once done. Folded, a pile of them, and slipped into the bag. She talks about various things, though they are never signed, I am sure it is a she, just from the context. Before she talked about hitting a certain age, and where she and her friends were with their lives. Then about her zine, and how someone ripped off one of her texts without credit, and how upset she was by this. This one talks about how she does her zine, how important it is to her, even if it isn’t to anyone else. I wonder about her zine, since there is no evidence of a physical magazine, or a link to an electronic one. But then, it does offer the answer, this is the zine, these pieces of paper released into the world for random people to read, unsigned and uncredited. At one point, as I go back and forth to the bar, there is a girl at a table, sitting by herself, long light brown hair, writing, little bits of paper, piles of bits and pieces. I wonder, is that her? Writing her latest? But without a photocopier to mass produce them right now? I check for more after she has gone, but only that first one I already picked up still sits there. Its that kind of place though, people in corners, with laptops, with art pads, with books, people coming in alone, or in groups. The acoustics are funny in here, so you get fragments of conversations – the girl that has to take photos for her scrap book, and then explain beside them why she took the picture. Two guys talk about unsigned bands and demos, about a gig here and there, the grizzled words of veterans who have been there done that, on the small scale you understand. How are You? Where are You? I wonder.

An Exchange On The Stairs

2009-10-17T13:57:00.000+01:00

My brother missed his flight, so he texted me to see if I wanted to meet him after I was done at work. So I got in, and we got tickets for a film, but still half an hour to kill, so we decide to grab a snack, with intention of eating properly after the film. Its 18 degrees, the warmest its been in a few weeks now. It’s the school holidays, its home time for a lot of people - so this corner here of Buchanan Street and Sauchiehall Street is mobbed. A crowed has gathered round the steps at the concert hall, those street dancers doing their robo thing, their breaky thing - I don’t get the fuss, I’ve seen them before, they never seemed that good. We nip into the shop, get a bite, a drink, and come back out, and the crowd has dispersed, mostly. So with the mild weather we decide to sit on the steps, eat, drink, watch the world go by. The Royal Concert hall hasn’t always been here, it was built in my life time, with its three layers of stone steps up to the main entrance, where people always sit around if the weather permits. So we sit there, weaving by the stragglers from the dance crew, by a couple of girls looking around, and various others. Two pairs of police officers come up the stairs, they quiz the groups of kids. They seem to pick out certain kids in particular, from experience, it would seem. The two girls we passed move up from first set of stairs to second set of stairs, they are dressed casually, but are clearly not part of any of the other groups that are sitting around, though they are waiting for something. One of them is a brunette, the other her hair is a lighter colour, both have long hair. The darker haired one decides to make a call, or something, I only half notice, until they move. There is another girl, sitting on the other side of the steps, on the other side of the arc, one I am only half conscious of, out the corner of my eye. The dark haired girl darts towards the other girl, who stands up. Two strangers at an allocated meeting point. The other girl is holding a black rectangle, a wallet, which she hands to the brunette. The brunette produces a small bunch of flowers which she hands over in exchange. The brunette’s friend catching up after a moment, a witness to this curious conversation. And its clear, the girl lost her wallet, got a call from the other girl to say it had been found, and they arranged to meet here, with the flowers as a thank you. We finish our food, look at the time, better get round to the cinema.

Train From Linz To Vienna

2009-10-07T11:59:00.000+01:00

I’m getting the train from Linz to Vienna on a Thursday morning. Getting on I am surprised to find that the train is split into small compartments. Which strikes me as being something that is particularly old fashioned, and not the layout of a regular train. This throws me some, and I’m unsure about how I tell what is free and what isn’t, where I can sit and where I can’t. The corridor here is narrow, there are other people blocking it with their bags, making calls, making my life difficult as I try to get past with my own bag. As such I admit I find the first mostly empty compartment and go in, I lurch in, hefting my bag up onto the high level shelf. There are two people in the carriage – man and a woman. He has obviously been on the train for a while; she is like me, settling in having boarded in Linz. He sits by the window; I sit on the same side, with a seat between us. She sits opposite him, with him sprawled across the tiny table emerging from the wall. She fumbles with the seat, frowns, and seems that there is something wrong with it, so she switches to the middle seat on that side. There is a bit of a conversation, and while I don’t speak German I get enough of an impression that they are discussing whether these seats are reserved or not. The conclusion would appear to be that they are ok, so I settle down with my book and MP3 player for the journey ahead.

The guy is a character. He clutches a can of lager and reads a magazine, which looks to be heavy metal and tattoos, and the like. His eyes have that heavy disposition which suggests he is reasonably drunk. He makes comments to us every so often, mostly giving the impression of trying to be helpful. Though I mostly have little idea what he is talking about, and remain as non-committal as I can. He wears a base ball cap, turned round, baseball shoes, baggy trousers, and a towel around his neck. As the journey goes on, he sprawls across the table, half asleep, fading in and out. As he nods off, his hat falls off, clatters to the floor of the carriage. Each time this happens he wakes up again, lifts the cap and puts it back on. The fact that this means it will fall off again in five minutes is obviously beyond his power of rational thought at this point in time. So indeed, five minutes later, the cap falls off and he does it all again. The woman looks at him with distaste on a number of these occasions as he fishes his hat from her feet.

She is fumbling with her bag when I arrive. One for the shelf, one beside her, fishing out a magazine which she reads for most of the journey. Her hair is brown, perhaps with a shade of red mixed in from a bottle. Its short, but big, sticking out from her head in a flaring crown. She wears a sleeveless white blouse, with high wasted black trousers. She wears complicated black shoes, which lace up on top, while having open toes and heels, the heel is a couple inches, striped black and white. She has a green velvet smart jacket, which she has folded beside her black hand bag, out of which I can see an umbrella handle – a clear plastic duck at the end of the grip.

Part way another woman comes in with her pug dog. She takes the seat the other woman abandoned, by the window, across from the other guy. The dog sprawls out across the floor, sandy coloured, happy to be there. She digs make up out of her bag, applying it while using a pocket mirror. She layers on heavy foundation, in that unfortunate fashion where she leaves a clear line of delineation along her jaw, pale and white below that line. Once she has done this, she plumps up her heavy brown hand bag, rests her head on her arm on top of the bag and dozes off until we reach Vienna.

Upon reaching Vienna the guy and the blonde are out of the carriage at the outskirts, getting off before the train terminates at Wein Westbahnhof. As we pull into the last station the first woman sits, poised, on the edge of her seat, ready to get off, waiting for the train to stop. She says something to me, I have to make my apologies, sorry, can’t understand you. She smiles, switches to English, nods, in a never mind fashion. Then she decides to ask where I am from, and we discuss visiting Linz, where she is from, and visiting Vienna. I tell her I am only here for the weekend, and she tells me that isn’t really enough, but its ok when I tell her this is my second trip here. She is here for the shopping, she says, there are some better shops in Vienna and she likes to come for the shopping. She indicates the bigger bag, which she intends to fill. She is going on holiday as well, a trip to Indonesia is imminent. The train arrives, we grab our bags and she tells me to enjoy myself, and I say similar to her.

Bob & Silent Jay

2009-10-06T11:55:00.000+01:00

We’re in Forbidden Planet, going through the new releases, when these two American guys brush by. There are a handful of flyers for a spoken performance by Kevin Smith, on the flyer it says “director of Clerks 2 and Zack & Miri”. The first one says - woh, Kevin Smith! The second looks puzzled, so he clarifies – you know, guy directed Clerks 2! You know, guy who did Bob & Doug! I mean Bob and Silent Jay! Now they are both getting confused, so the first guy decides to finish the conversation – well, if you know him you know him! The inference clearly being that a man like him knows his Bob & Silent Jay, even if you don’t.

That Bastard We All Love To Hate

2009-09-26T15:51:00.000+01:00

Across from the cinema there is a corner shop, maybe one of the 24 hour ones, or at least a late night one anyway. A lot of the people who go to the cinema come here to get snacks and drinks, rather than being tied to the over priced brand restricted stuff you can get inside. That’s what I’m doing here, its what the couple in front of me are doing. He has just asked her something about her relationship, to which she responds - it depends on my mood. He is taller than she is, shaven head, a bit stubbly, a smart jacket over totally casual clothes. She is short, wide, long red hair, a skirt and bright red tights. She shrugs when he repeats her words, he adds - that doesn’t sound too good. She laughs, well, I’m thinking about dumping her. But yes, I am that bastard, she says, I’m trying to decide whether I’ll sleep with her one last time before I dump her. He makes a sound, she shrugs, laughs, I am that guy, she says, that bastard we all love to hate.

Ars Electronica (7)

2009-09-25T09:42:00.000+01:00

There is a couple at a table in the outside part of the café, it’s a warm day, we’re sitting out there. He is sprawled. Brown trainers kicked off on to the ground. His legs across a neighbouring chair. Black socks, blue jeans, a t-shirt. He has long hair, straggly, tied back. A beard to match, a dusky, sandy kind of colour. His arms are covered in tattoos, long ones, extending all the way across his hands, right up to the knuckles. He smokes and drawls in conversation, utterly relaxed. She looks a little more “proper” in her manner. A black dress, casual, a red cardigan. Her hair is bobbed, jaw length, straight – like a librarian slash dominatrix. She has a stud in her nose and no apparent tattoos. She leans on the tables, her elbows, seemingly hanging on his every word. She smiles, and laughs when it seems appropriate. They are there for a good while, just hanging out. Till eventually they leave, he cycles by 2 minutes later, that blue vinyl courier bag over his shoulder, absent minded making his way to wherever.

Parking

2009-09-24T19:44:00.000+01:00

I’m trying to park, it’s a Sunday, so parking is free. But its getting harder all the time to find a space. I find one in Hope St, in front of that bus stop where S parks all the time. The space is big enough, but traffic is heavy, so I make a mess of getting into it. Ideally I would come out and try again, but with the buses, and traffic, its easier to make stop starts back and forth till I’m in. A bus stops killing my visibility. A bus stops and people flood off, wandering around me, behind me. So I have to wait till they clear, till I can be confident I won’t hit anyone. I’m touching curb, and I’m not happy about it. Nothing I can do about it till its clear. The two shuffling old women getting off the bus stop at my car and wave at me, they point at the curb, they think they are being helpful. I throw my hands in my air, in a yeah, tell me about it fashion, and mouth I KNOW! They smile and wander off, and I can get the space to park properly. That done I wander off. I go to see a film, I buy some books, I have dinner, I go see a film. I come back to the car, hours later. Its dark now, late, the street is clear. Just my car, and the bus stop, and a couple. He is standing in the road, about a car length behind my car. She is standing behind the glass of the shelter, and you can hear her a mile off. She is shouting, a familiar scene, one I’ve seen too often - I want you out of my life! I’m sick of you! I want you to go away! I don’t mean for now! I don’t mean till morning! I mean forever! I want you to fuck off! People stop at the junction and look down. I get in my car. I lock my doors. I drive away.

Ars Electronica (6)

2009-09-24T10:57:00.000+01:00

In the main square there are a number of installations and temporary venues as part of the Ars Electronica. The Japanese Media Festival is touring Europe, part of its contribution to Linz is a game dome here, a constant draw for people to pop in and play games. Then there is the shiny surfaced block of the 80+1 building, which has a handful of interfaces, video displays, and an information desk. Between these two structures there is a fountain and a virtual taxi round Tel Aviv and a sound installation with recordings from a Swiss tunnel. Staff flit between the pieces, with their orange shirts, with the Ars logo on the breast pocket. We pass this at various times through the weekend, every time we do there is a blonde girl loitering around. Short hair, trimmed at the back and sides, floppy on top and at front. She is always wearing a t-shirt, something sleeveless, and baggy jeans. Sometimes she has her hands in her pocket, sometimes she is standing smoking. The last time during the festival she is sat on the tunnel simulator, one arm resting on the side, the other with a cigarette in hand. She has curled tribal spiral earrings through her ears. And at another point I see her and a guy with dreads cycling the street close to the 80+1. After the festival is winding down we are still wandering round the city as it gets quieter, as they already have that shiny surface stripped down to the wooden interior. We sit in the upstairs of the kebab shop, eating a duran for lunch; I glance outside at that wooden building, a security fence round it, components on the ground. And there she is again, that blonde girl, part of the crew taking the building apart – at last, after all that waiting, she gets to demolish.

Ars Electronica (5)

2009-09-23T09:42:00.000+01:00

We are sitting in a bar when a girl comes in, a friend of a friend, so she comes over and chats to us. How are you liking Austria? She asks me. I’ve only been here a day, it’s rained most of that time, we spent the afternoon in a museum. What can I say? She has come in with two shady looking guys, who don’t come over to join us. They sit at the bar, watching everyone, talking to each other. We leave about then, so she goes back to join them. Later, we are in a packed club, a crush of bodies, and I see her in the crowd, amongst the cloud of smoke and flashing lights, the pounding music. We don’t stay long, having wandered in long enough to get a flavour of the place, before wandering on to the next place. We manage to get a table in Cubus, in the corner, with the lights of the AEC’s façade still going through their colour spectrum beside us. We’ve been there a few minutes when the two shady guys appear at the next table, no sign of the girl this time, just the two of them at a table, looking shifty. A waitress appears almost immediately. I swear I hear her say – so this is the bag? To which they nod. And she grabs a bag from the floor by their feet, where I hadn’t seen it. And she is off with it, returning a minute later with a beer for each of them. Five minutes later a waiter comes along, stands and chats to them, he is grinning, pleased about something. The two guys sit a while, the beers barely touched, instead nursing soft drinks, smoking, looking shiftily around.

Running Man

2009-09-23T08:15:00.000+01:00

It’s a Saturday night, gone Sunday morning. About 1am, if I recall. Five lanes sweep into Charring Cross, over the motorway and down onto the motorway. The lights are at red, most of the cars stopped are taxis at this kind of time, though there are a few people like me, driving home after a night out. There is a guy wandering along the pavement, till he spots the red light, the stopped cars. Suddenly he breaks into a run, out into the road, to the empty outside lane, and he is building speed. Like he is racing cars going nowhere as he hammers through the junction. And I watch bemused, wondering what that was about, thinking he was lucky not to be hit by cars coming through the other side of the junction, wondering why he didn’t just wait for the crossing lights.

Ars Electronica (4)

2009-09-22T12:52:00.000+01:00

We’ve gone round to a bar, wear a friend of the people I am with works. Winding through streets which are unfamiliar to me, and teeming with people. The wine festival coincides with Ars Electronica, so every bar has a stand outside, people are wandering from place to place carrying large glasses, and we wove our way through this mass. While we wait for the friend to appear we are served by a plain looking girl with long dark hair tied back, wearing the shirt with the bar’s name like the other staff. When she is done serving us she goes back to the bar, where she is tearing mint. She has bushels of the stuff, and is tearing it into manageable chunks for cocktails. She pops a bit in her mouth and chews, the air full of the smell of fresh mint. Beside her one of the other waitresses is on pineapple – she approaches it with a knife, trying to decide the best way to get it to do what she wants it to do. Whatever she does, it doesn’t work, and is soon taking a cloth to her shirt to soak up the spray of juice. Beside her there is a guy, making pink cocktails for the couple at the end of the bar. The girl has very short hair, bright and blonde, wearing a striking shoulderless dress, while he looks much plainer in his basic smart shirt and jumper. The bar man slices a strawberry just so, and perches it on the rim of the glass, smiling content with his work.. Before taking the two pink drinks and delivering them to the couple. The friend arrives, we chatter, we get more drinks, and laugh, then we leave, heading to the AEC once again.

Ars Electronica (3)

2009-09-22T09:23:00.000+01:00

FM4 have a group of people performing on a small stage in the square at the back of the Ars Electronica building. People are milling around the square, leaning against the tables, smoking and drinking. There is a flight of steps at the back, which could double as seating – which some people are doing, others are standing. The building flickers and shifts, the façade going through a range of colours, though not quite as well sequenced and timed with the music as has been suggested. We watch for a while, before wandering round the back of the stairs, which act as a roof for another part of the building, so the sides here are also flickering with colour. Round the back there is a path, lined with concrete bollards. Here there is a man by himself, an older man, with a heavy jacket. He is crouching by one of the bollards, where a laptop is balanced. On the screen we can see various windows open, including a live video of a woman talking to him. He sits and chatters, talking to this woman who knows where, with this spectacle going through its rainbow motions behind him, unnoticed. Oh yeah, C says, they have free WiFi all round the AEC, and we wander back to listen to more of the music.

Ars Electronica (2)

2009-09-22T09:14:00.000+01:00

Saturday is the busiest day of the Ars Electronica weekend. We wandered through the OK centre during the day. In each room there was a member of staff, most likely a 20-something girl, in a blue OK t-shirt, with a picture of the Ferris wheel from the roof on it. In the second last room, the one with the lamp shade, the video about the pillars which have been written on, before the vortex, there is a girl with long red hair, the blue t-shirt, casual black trousers, and floppy boots, with little heels, which look a little out of place with the rest of the outfit. Back at the OK about 10-11pm, and the place is mobbed. There is a club in the top floor, the walls covered with binary projections, and blipping glitching electronic music, we’ve been up there, but come back to the lobby. There is a bar on this level, another down stairs, and a video store, we’ve caught up with friends here, loitering around, and waiting for other people. And I spot her again, the red head, shoulders curled, slouching, looking bored, standing by herself amongst the crowd of people. R is hitting on girls, smiling as he steps into their path and says something clever. Mostly they ignore him and keep going. He is a dedicated ladies man, but for all that he misses the red head, who might just be bored enough to humour him. She finishes her drink, looks around and seems to shrug; she wanders behind the counter of the reception/video store desk and retrieves her jacket which has obviously been shoved down there out the way. Pulls it on, a black jacket, tugs at the zip, and slinks out into the night.

The Quietest Buskers Ever

2009-09-16T09:27:00.001+01:00

I pass them Saturday night and again on Sunday afternoon. A couple busking, a pair of teenagers, nice respectable looking kids. This afternoon he is wearing a cardigan and jeans. She has shoulder length hair, a green and black checked dress. The skirt has body, ruffled, but then she also seems to be holding it up some. Showing off her knees as though she is trying to be daring. He plays guitar, she sings, and it’s obvious that they are new to this – because they are far too quiet. The quietest buskers ever – you would barely know they were there, even walking by them. Though they do have a handful of coins in the guitar case, so they can’t be that bad? (Unless they put them in there themselves to look convincing?)

Just Like In A Film

2009-09-15T15:18:00.000+01:00

There is a Polish girl floating around the book shop. She has long brown hair, tied back. She has a pronounced nose, short skirt, great legs, brown boots, and a pink jacket, which is embroidered with patterns. She sits on the floor by the crime section, and then later is perched on a chair beside the table of chick lit. She seems to have been there for ages before finally going to the sales desk. The girl
at the check out has just taken the books from her when there is an announcement. Someone has handed in a lost phone, it belongs to the person they name in the announcement. Its her phone, she gasps. The girl calls down to the front desk, and they bring it to her. Explain that someone handed it in, and they only know her name because her husband phoned looking for her. Is just like een fillum, she says,
grinning, her English heavily accented.

I'll Be Batman

2009-09-15T15:17:00.000+01:00

A couple walking along the street. She small, dumpy, thick ankles, big cleavage, with out being fat, but hardly dynamic. He finishes telling her a piece of gossip. She then says, I’ll be Batman, you be Robin.
Pardon he says?
I’m Batman, you be Robin, she repeats as though it’s obvious. I am so obviously Batman in this couple, she clarifies as they walk by me and continue up the street.

Ars Eletctronica (1)

2009-09-08T11:30:00.004+01:00

We are watching Shrink for the 1st time. Three human beings becoming shrink wrapped for an audience. A girl appears, kneeling at the front to take pictures. She has dusky skin, suggesting an Indian heritage. She is slight, bobbed fashionable dark hair, a short black dress, tights, flat shoes. Round her neck she wears...a scarf? It is some kind of three dimentional fashion art object, one almost suspects she fabricated it herself in one of the labs in the Ars Electronica basement. Its streaked with orange chunks, hanging off a black net frame. Its kind of intriguing.

The next day, we are back in the Brucknerhaus, this time for the gig by Carsten Nicolai and Ryoji Ikeda. And there she is again, with her boyfriend. He looks stylish too, that pimped out hipster gangster kind of style - shirt, tie, waistcoat kind of deal. She is wearing a full length skirt, but its kind of a double skirt. The top part, which comes down to mid thigh is solid and black, from there down to the ground it is sheer, black and pretty much transparent, stick legs, and flat sold sandshoes are visible.

After the gig we head to Cubus, the bar at the top of the Ars Electronica, various parties meeting up at the end of the night. One to hit the road, and all that. And there they are, the same couple, sat at the next table from us. I guess thats the nature of events like these, seeing the same people over and over, especially when you have a style as eye catching as hers.

Shrinking To An Arrow

2009-09-08T11:29:00.000+01:00

She wears a white blouse top. Has long brown hair, propped up on her head, held back by black sunglasses. She wanders round the book shop for a while, before heading into the café. She sits along one of the sides, overlooking the floor below. She has a coffee and a packet of crisps. She eats them carefully, one at a time, each thin slice of cooked potato held between finger and thumb. Poised while she reads, and then eaten. Then the next, in hand, ready. When she is done with the crisps, she produces a lollypop – a rectangular candy on a stick. She eats this the same way, slow, precise, careful – savouring it. The stick wiggles in her mouth, protruding as the turns the page, before being poised again. With time, it gets smaller, shrinking to an arrow
head, then smaller still.

Non/Verbal

2009-09-06T14:39:00.000+01:00

A couple stand in the central reservation, waiting for an opening in traffic to complete their road crossing exercise. He is wearing a brown jacket, hands in pockets of blue jeans. Standing side on to her, intent on the traffic. She is animated, recounting the days adventures, or just telling him off. It is unclear. She has short
blonde hair, a red blouse, black trousers, and a fitted black waist coat. The ensemble is effective, smart. You can see her mouth form words, big and exaggerated. Her arms wave about, gesturing at herself, a clear “me” moment in the dialogue. Is she conscious of her movements, I wonder, sitting in traffic, is she imitating someone? Her
shoulders and hips move, the conversation as dance move, a non-verbal statement, which speaks volumes if you are listening. With her movement she is voluble , with his you would barely hear him at all.

Dancing to the Music

2009-09-06T14:38:00.001+01:00

It’s a week or two since Jackson died. But you still can’t escape him. There are two women sitting having coffee. Perhaps in their forties, but the kind that look good with it. The kind that look like they’ve probably put careful effort in to look good with it. Tall and thin, affluent and casual. As they leave, they stop to talk to someone. Walking away, the red goes up on her toes, Jackson style, in accordance with the music that is playing. The spins round from who she is talking to, to make her exit, to find the blonde, bent double with laughter. So, grinning, she does it again. Across from them, there is a mother, dressed in black, with two daughters, about 10-12,
one in grey, one in green. Thriller starts and the one in grey starts to dance as they make their way through the shop.

Bore Hunting

2009-09-04T12:02:00.002+01:00

The twins are big and blond and loud. Good grief they are loud. They have the stature of rugby players, rich-people-casual jeans, white t-shirts strapped across muscular backs, a receding hairline and they cackle. One of them works for a bank. The other one for a consultancy firm. They are my age and their hobbies are waterboarding in the tropics. And sailing on their own boats. And trout fishing. And boar hunting. They complain about night swimmers getting in the way of their midnight yachting. Why would anyone swim? Let them ride boats!
But the economy is nibbling on their jobs, that, once you ask them what they do are little more than teamleader positions. An uncle owns the fish pond. They are trying to sell the boat they co-own and that isn't really a yacht. A rich friend owns the hunting grounds. And he likes to shoot moles in his own garden, when he's not boar hunting.
"Does he mount the little mole heads on the walls, too, with little plaques?" I ask. That stops the cackling.
"Oh. No. Not that kind of hunting", one of them says kindly.

That Girl, The One In The Zebra Print Dress!

2009-09-02T10:06:00.000+01:00

I am in the photograph that she takes, writing this I guess. Perhaps, depending on her focus. Sitting in the cinema bar. Two guys came in and got themselves drinks. They chatter away – foreign – but I’m not sure from where, some where Mediterranean? One is tubby, his hair straggly and thinning, his belly pronounced, a tufty goatee. The other is younger, more handsome, dressed more smartly, though they could still be brothers. They’ve been here a little while before she arrives. And she is eye catching. Carefully styled hair, shoulder length, wavy, dark, with her fringe a blonde tint. She wears a short, tight, zebra print dress. It shows off her nicely shaped rear and props up and compliments her cleavage. The dress leaves her shoulders bare, it has a back slit that shows a bra strap and bare flesh, it is short enough (and rides up when she sits) to show her nice legs (wearing black tights). She wears gold rings, one with chains across the back of her hand, connecting to a bracelet around her wrist. As soon as she sits down the produces the camera and they take turns snapping each other. The tubby guy get the camera and tells the two to get together. So she clambers into his lap and they snuggle together. Staying that way even when they stop taking pictures. The younger guy running his hand up and down her bare back, his hand through her hair, and they kiss, wetly. At times they switch to English as though they are not quite all from the same place, or they can easily express certain things in a different language. The dress is thin, it clings to her flesh, his hand through that slit, grasps her pink bra, and undoes the clasp. Holding the ends in his fist. She looks at him, a stare, until he does it back up again. Then she moves off his lap, back to her own chair. About ten minutes pass and words are exchanged. The tubby guy stands up and leaves, there almost seems to be an element of hostility in the air. The couple exchange glances after he has gone, before a moment later and she is back in his lap, kissing and having her hair stroked. He fiddles with her bra again, this time she slaps him, enough to get his attention focussed. After a while the pair get up and leave, looking at their watches, time for the film to start. Heads turn all around to watch her leave, to watch that dress cling to her body. She really is something, and totally over done for a Sunday afternoon in the cinema, but she doesn’t care. That’s that then? But five minutes later, the tubby guy reappears, coming round the corner to return to that table. He stops, looks confused. Presumably he popped out for something, but took longer than expected – they aren’t there, so he turns again, and goes off to find them.

Bold Statements

2009-09-02T09:50:00.000+01:00

A girl wanders through the art and travel section of the book shop. She wears a light black jacket, has a black t-shirt, and her long black hair is tied back in a pony tail. She looks about 18, fairly young, with a ring through her nose. She wears short, short, denim shorts that look like they are in danger of disappearing into intimate places. She has long, bare legs, is wearing chunky, chunky boots, soles that are several inches thick, then several inches more. Her legs are a riot of colour from the knees down. A rose to the side of one knee cap. Other bold large scale tattoos coming from the boot line, more flaring flowers. Quite what they all are I don’t really see, but one thing is clear – these are not casual tattoos – these are bold statements.

My Auntie Is Round The Corner With My Kebab.

2009-08-11T15:21:00.000+01:00

We’ve been at the cinema. She knows where I park. So she has parked behind me. After the film we sat in the bar till closing time, its after midnight now. So we are walking back to the cars. One parked behind the other. We stand in the street, talking, beside my car. Two guys stagger down the street. They are carrying on, shove each other a little. There is a car parked behind hers. A couple of foot from the curb. A window sitting open. A couple sitting as though waiting for something. The older of the two guys leans towards the car. Shouts something, carries on. Here we go, I say to her. He says something, disappearing behind her back. Pardon, I didn’t catch it all. The younger keeps on going down the street. I asked if you had a blade. I’m totally going to stab him! Oh. Sorry mate, can’t help you. He stops and grins. I’m not really going to stab him. He’s my wee cousin, and he’s doing my head in. He makes another joke about stabbing him. Before deciding to change his tune - no, actually, I’ve got a kebab... round the corner… I’ve got a fork… but I really need a knife to eat it. You’ve got a kebab round the corner? I hope someone is looking after it for you! - I say. He replies. Yeah my auntie is holding it for me. She points down the stairs to her side – there is a restaurant there, you could always ask them for a knife. No, no – he insists - the less people who know about it the better. Who know about your kebab? – I ask. Yeah, exactly. Anyway, what have you been up to? We’ve been to the cinema – I tell him. What did you see – he asks. Adam. How was it? Wasn’t bad. I heard a review of it on the radio, that Edith Bowman on radio 1, the clip made it sound decent, but I thought what does Edith know - she is just a radio DJ – what would you give it out of five? Oh, maybe a 3? He shakes his head - god you’re sitting on the fence, you’re just like Edith mate, you’re nothing but a radio DJ! His cousin re-appears at the next corner and waves at him. He glances at his phone, he has received a message, he shrugs. Then notices the phone, and says – um this phone, its pink, its not mine… its my mums! And shoves it back in his pocket. He sighs – glad I stopped to talk to you guys, you’ve been great, I needed a break. He then hugs us both, in a dude fashion, and goes off to catch his cousin. We look at each other and shake our heads, say our goodnights and head home.

The Cat

2009-08-10T10:13:00.004+01:00

There is a man feeding the cats as we come up. An older man in sturdy jeans and a t-shirt, surrounded by 16 milling cats.
"Hello", we tell him. "We just wanted to see them."
He nods. It is the obvious thing to do and he has no further questions. People who love cats know this. Cats must be watched. At all times.
He puts out one bowl after the other. The cats mill around, brushing him with upright tails, getting on their hind legs to paw at him. There is a constant purr swelling through the air. One tiger striped tom gallops past us on his way to the bowls, he got held up and is now terrified that there may not be anything left for him to eat, ever.
The man moves around his charges, petting every one of them, diligently, fairly. "Can't leave any out", he explains. "Would make them unhappy."
It is our turn to nod. Of course you can't. Of course it would.
One little tom, white with russet patches, leaves the crowd to come and say hello. He is old, his eyes are crusted. His ears are odd. Not only pink, as is usual with white cats, but ragged, as if chewed off. We comment on that.
"It's the sun, or something", says the man. "It just gets worse. The vet says there's nothing we can do."
We pet the little cat with the chewed off ears. It turned its back on the food bowl just for us. We pet it a little harder.

Medicinal Encounters.

2009-07-23T14:01:00.001+01:00

We are in the Black Medicine café place. C is waiting at the counter for our teas and coffees, when the stubble haired guy leans forward and starts talking to him. He is dressed in black, a thick black jumper, black jeans, black boots, chunky esoteric metal chains round his neck. His hair is shaven short, maybe a 2 gauge? He wears glasses with yellow frames. There is something feral in the way he speaks to C, I watch to see how the conversation develops. Nothing seems to come of it, and after the guy has left we discuss how he was just asking about C’s phone, but there was something edgey about his manner. As we had noticed for the rest of his stay. The furniture is made of stray pieces of wood, giving it all a rugged feel. We sit at a table, the girls G and L on one side, C and I on the other. He sits behind the girls; a shelf built into the back of their bench, his mug sitting there, while he is propped on a stool. A guy with a window seat brushes by on his way to the counter. From here the conversation is fragmentary, but the gist is that they he is growling in challenge – what the hell do you want? The other guy looks surprised, I’m just passing, if I brushed you I meant no harm. He looks barely satisfied with this response. Having ordered he tries to return to his seat, the growler looks at him in challenge. Then he stands up, faces off with the guy as though he is going to start something, then grudgingly steps aside. Another customer arrives, spots something on the growler’s shelf, engages him in conversation. Can I take that? You can try, but I’m finishing my coffee here. He reaches across the growler who is not cooperating, who is obstructing. The guy is easy natured, something of a chancer, he fails, then shrugs and turns back to the counter. The growler leans precariously, waving his arms with voluble gestures, his mouth snarling silent swear words and threats. We drink our teas and coffees, we catch up, we are all conscious of his seething presence, as he glares around looking for his next victim, before finally leaving after receiving a phone call.

Two Little Girls, Two Little Brollies

2009-07-23T13:46:00.001+01:00

At the crossing point of a busy junction a man stands with his two daughters. Two young girls standing on either side of him, holding his hands. The rain is heavy like the traffic and it looks unlikely they’ll get across any time soon. They look miserable, pouting some, though they are both dressed for the weather. Smart in the jumpers and skirts, the brightly coloured PVC rain coats. Each girl, in her free hand, holds a child's size umbrella, with a Disney design. One is green with Tinkerbell flying, the other with, I guess, Cinderella in her ball gown. The traffic shifts and I drive on, while they still stand there, waiting in the rain.

Pictures From The Car Wash

2009-07-21T08:03:00.000+01:00

Driving up to the lights round the corner from work, they are red so I am slowing down. There is an old car yard to the left, used to be a mechanics, hasn’t been in ages, now it’s the latest version of a car wash. One which claims to be open 24 hours, the only sign of which is that a few times this early in the morning I’ve seen one guy sitting snoozing on a chair. This morning there is a motorbike sitting, quite a big one, blue and white. One guy sits on it, short sleeved green t-shirt, blue jeans, his arms crossed to give him a manly, confident look, even if the sub text of his expression suggests he thinks he’ll get caught any minute. The other guy wears a baggy coat, green patterned shorts to his knees, and traditional Wellington boots (it is a car wash), and smoke wafts from the cigarette in his mouth, while he takes pictures of the guy on the bike, holding the digital camera two handed.

Old Folk Dancing Like They Were Young Again

2009-07-06T13:19:00.001+01:00

High Tease & Vegas 4th of July special, a mix of big band and burlesque and the crowd is mixed. Dress is not strictly enforced, but a lot of people have made the effort. Once the show part of the evening has finished the back of 10, the DJs start playing music, while a couple of showgirls take turns dancing on stage with their feathers and sequins. The audience is very mixed, covering the age spectrum, but there is this one couple, this old couple, who look like they were probably dancing like this when it was first invented and are still dancing like that. There are young couples standing with their jaws dropping, at various stages of the night there are girls lining up with the old woman carefully trying to follow every step that she makes, while boyfriends cheer them on. She is in a vintage dress, looks like it was new in the 40’s, he is wearing a suit of similar kind of style, baggy, long at the back, his shows black, with the white spats. They swing and they turn, touching the floor, spinning round, twisting, the works. The audience applaud, though at the point he lifts her, practically to head height, and swings her full circle, before returning her to the ground, gets the biggest response. The crowd watch, expecting the worst, these are two people who are getting on, some of us will feel sore in the morning, so god knows how they will feel, but they do it, and they put us all to shame with their vigour.

With her feather boa, she dances like Tigger

2009-07-06T11:55:00.001+01:00

While the burlesque girls do their strip teases and guys do their dirty songs, there is a girl in a nice red dress, sat a table by herself. She checks her phone every so often, until eventually another two women join her. One is blonde, bobbed cut, dressed in a black dress. The other has long dark hair, tied back, dressed more casual in a room full of people dressed to the nines – with her baggy culottes, which C & G describe as being like “hammer pants”, and a strappy little vest top to go with that. Vest and trousers are both black, which she contrasts with a red feather boa. When the show is done, the girl in the red dress leaves, the two older and later women stay on. When they DJ starts playing the big band music, the girl with the boa is up on the dance floor. She chats to one of the stewards, leaves her drink on the side of the stage for him to keep an eye on. And she dances, by which I mean, she bounds about like a woman 10 years younger than she is, skipping and bouncing, she reminds of Tigger. She runs circles rounds people and she does this all night. At one point she starts dancing with a random couple. The guy is dressed in black trousers, red shirt, and black waistcoat, with a black hat to finish the look off. As she dances circles round them, wrapping him then her with the boa, she spots another guy across the dance floor, and darts off to grab him. Taking his hand in hers she tugs him across the floor, feet working the floor like a tug-o-war participant. Till she has the two guys standing side by side, and they are dressed identical, except for the hat, and she points at them, dressed the same, and bends double with laughter, slapping her thighs. They look at each other bemused, and nod, yup, we’re dressed the same. They make some token acknowledgement, before the guy goes back to join his own girlfriend. And she goes on like that. Occasionally disappearing to a table, occasionally spotting someone she may or may not know, but will talk to anyway. When we finally leave just before 1am, she is sat in the back corner of the room, taking a momentary break from dancing with a pillar that had been dominating her attention for the previous half hour.

And The Horse You Came In On.

2009-07-03T11:11:00.000+01:00

He is a skinny guy. Big glasses. A little twitchy. Some of the girls find him a little creepy. He strikes me as being a little edgy, nervous. Today is his 50th birthday. Though he isn’t at work – he is at the dentist, so figured he might as well take rest of day off – given we stop early on Fridays. So they celebrated yesterday. Coming into swipe at the back door, there was a picture of him, sitting on a kid’s rocking horse – the kind you put money in, and it rocks and plays music for five minutes. Up the stair well and into the office, there are more photographs – from holidays and parties, the ghosts of excesses past come back to haunt him for the occasion. Pictures in dresses, in wigs, accompanied by nuns and fairies and prisoners. People nudge him and wink, yeah, it was a fancy dress party. Yeah, my wife gave them to a colleague. He laughs it all off admirably, adapting to his role as centre of attention. Lunch time he produces a stack of cakes from the bakers round the corner, lines the dozen boxes up on top of a line of cabinets, goes round and tells everyone they are there. For the next half hour everyone is laughing about sticky fingers, and about the cream they’ve got all over their faces. Morning after, the only sign is the 4 spots of blue tack on the pillars the length of the floor, and that picture of him on the horse, still on the back door at 7.30am this morning.

Dancing In The Street

2009-07-03T11:08:00.001+01:00

Parked in a quiet side street off the main road, I’ve just climbed back into the car and am about to drive across town, when these two woman walk by. I wait to see what they do before I do anything, so I’m watching in my mirror when they stop just behind me. One of them does a step forward, wiggles her hips, does a step to the side. The second tries to copy the series of movements, doesn’t quite have it as naturally as the first. So first does it again, the second copies, and then they do it together, dancing in the street. Then they both laugh and walk up to the corner of Blytheswood Square, where a guy starts talking to them. I wonder if he knows them, or if he has just spotted them doing their little routine.

Over Rated Chocolate Cake

2009-07-01T09:52:00.000+01:00

I’ve got time to kill before I meet friends, and I’ve come into town straight from work. So I go for food, that Italian place, in the basement, where the owner will turn up and sing as the mood fits him. Having parked, I reach Sauchiehall St, and try and work out where the nearest bank machine in – in the opposite direction, but not as far if I were to go in the right direction. So I’m walking to that corner, girl passes me, red head, cardigan, denim skirt, black tights, look too thick for this weather, and a blue t-shirt, with yellow lettering “burn baby burn”. I get cash money for the evening, and head back to the restaurant. The red head is on the door – because it’s a basement place, they always have someone on the door with a menu to try and catch punters – tonight it’s the burn baby burn girl. I go down the stairs, the place is empty, just one waitress – not the usual French girl, a Scottish girl, shoulder length hair, skinny. Another waitress arrives after I’ve ordered my foot. One of those eastern European accents, short hair. Both girls are dressed entirely in black, though the second one has plunging neck line, which is a little more suggestive. The Scottish girl warms up the coffee machine, do you want a coffee, she asks the other girl, who pages through a magazine, bored. The other girl doesn’t respond, I said do you want a coffee, oh, no. And they get into a conversation about why she is in a funny mood – two guys following her, bugging her – I don’t catch context. The Scottish girl brings my main course – Cajun salmon, different from the last time I had it here – it’s drowning in sauce, while before it was blackened with herbs and dense flavours, still its nice, and before there was half a plate of skinny chips, this time they are big fat wedges of potato. She goes back to the bar – that’s called invasion of space, entering into your comfort zone – she tells the foreign girl. Then she wanders to a couple of joined tables, scatters a couple of things on to them, including balloons which are weighted so they don’t float off – the words HAPPY 70TH BIRTHDAY emblazoned on them. Shortly after a woman arrives, part of the party group, sits at the table by herself, with a drink. Then a couple arrive, and are sat somewhere at the back, before another two women arrive who are part of the party group. Curiously the women haven’t met before, the older of the new arrivals says – you’ll be sister-in-law – she is. They chatter, holidays, work stuff, the usual, especially for people who have just met, but are part of same extended family. I have dessert, the foreign girl takes my order – I’ll take the chocolate cake, cold, with ice cream. It’s warm – so why did they bother offering me the option? I blame its lack of flavour on it being warm – but it could just be one of those nasty bland chocolate cakes. Chocolate desserts are so over rated, because there are so many sub-standard dishes churned out; only the addition of the blob of ice cream offers any relief to it at all. But at least it kills time, and by the time I pay, its coming up for 6pm and I can go find this café we are supposed to be meeting in tonight.

Zebra Striped Bombshell

2009-06-30T09:54:00.000+01:00

Two guys come into the cinema bar, I guess Spanish, skin shade and the language they are speaking. But its one of those cases where I’m only catching fragments from where I am sat, and they could just as easily turn out to be Polish. One of them is quite tubby, probably the older of the two. His belly sticks out, his upper torso is meaty, his hair is scraggly thin, and he has a tufty attempt at a beard. He is dressed entirely in black. The other guy has a better build, looks younger, healthier. His hair is a little thing on top, but not nearly as bare as his friend. The two sit at a table with 3 chairs, sat opposite each other over a table, with the third chair cornered against the wall. They sit and drink beers and chatter away cheerfully. Then the bombshell arrives – she is wearing heels, gives her something of a sway to her walk; she is wearing sheer black tights on long legs; she is wearing a figure hugging zebra patterned dress, its glossy, its shimmery, it screams sex, it rides up her thighs as she sits, it clings to her ass regardless, it dips at the front where her cleavage is shoved into your face, along the back its baggy, and open, so you can see bare flesh, and the pink clasp of a bra; her hair is wavy, Mediterranean, sculpted in gentle curls, dark to her shoulders, except for blonde highlights through her fringe. Yeah, bombshell, and she is with these two guys? They make her clamber past them for the free seat, and almost as soon as she has sat down she has a camera out. She takes a picture of tubby, flash. She takes a picture of skinny, flash. Tubby takes a picture of her, flash. Then he encourages skinny and her to sit together, so she climbs into his lap like a cat. Flash. Once there she stays there, his hand straying into the gap in the back of her dress while they talk, stroking at the naked skin. They kiss. He unfastens her bra, one end of the clip in each hand as he looks at her, teasing, waiting for her reaction. She scowls at him till he fastens her back up, and she takes that as her queue to return to her own seat. Minutes pass, tubby suddenly stands up, and leaves – it seems surprising, the couple look at each other for a moment. But it seems like a good excuse for her to crawl into his lap again, so she does. They kiss, loudly. He says something. She slaps him, classic movie star slap. Then they kiss again, the drama! Another five minutes and they stand up, take their tickets for their film and head up to the screen. Eyes turning to watch her as she leaves, that clinging dress seeming to sparkle. Well, that’s that. Except another five minutes later, the tubby guy staggers round the corner back into the bar. Stops in front of the table where they were sitting, looks confused, then leaves again.

Dancing In The Street

2009-06-29T15:59:00.000+01:00

Every record shop has stacks of his records. Shifting as many as possible in the wake of his death. The HMV in Buchanan Street which took over the still cooling corpse of the Zavvi that was there before, has speakers mounted in the door way, blasting music into the street. Looping his hits. It hits Thriller. Two girls walking down the street, right by the speakers, take a moment to do a step, to swing their arms in front of them like the shuffling dead. Moments later, couple coming up the other way, on the other side of the street, nudge each other, and without missing a step, they do the arm thing as well.

Hands Free, Phone Free

2009-06-29T10:57:00.000+01:00

Coming up to a road that cuts across the pedestrianised section of Buchanan Street, there are lights at the crossing. Cutting across there is a guy, grey t-shirt, greying blue jeans that are knee length shorts. He is heavy built, short dark hair, trainers, and seems to be holding a conversation. But then, it’s the modern condition, people in the street holding conversations are probably on the phone. His arms swing loose at his side as he shuffles and limps along the curb. Well, ok, maybe its an ear piece, one of those blue tooth things you see inserted their like it’s a physical implant. I hold back from walking to the curb, because if I don’t he will walk into me, as I do so I watch him, checking for the ear phone, but no, he doesn’t have one. He is, in fact, talking to himself, and from the tone he is giving himself a hard time. I watch him pass on his way, a couple along stopping from stepping into his path, similarly they watch, with bemused looks on their faces in response.

Girl Changing Shoes.

2009-06-29T10:34:00.000+01:00

I’m having a quick bite to eat, sitting by the window, and I glance out the window, which looks out into lane. There is a Chinese guy, coming out a side door – I think there is a Chinese restaurant just at the front. He waves a hand, then holds up a finger – ONE! I glance around, surely he isn’t indicating to me, so who is he? But no one by me even notices him. I glance back, as he approaches the car parked right in front of the window, which is when I realise there is a Chinese girl sitting in it. She gets out and they exchange words. She is dressed in a grey top, long sleeved, with a baggy front, which hangs loose so that you can see that she is a more fitting white top underneath. She is wearing grey black jeans, and brown black cowboy boots. She slips the boots off, leaning against the back door, chucking them into the back seat, as she slips on smart flat soled shoes. Slipping off the lemon yellow socks which she wore with the boots isn’t wearing with the shoes. (This is the second time this weekend I’ve seen a girl changing shoes in the street, something which I’ve actually seen with some frequency – the night before girl was changing from flat soled flip flops, into higher heeled strappy shoes for going out.) Then it’s into the boot, pulling out jackets, a flask, a couple of bars of some kind of Kinder snack, and clutching cinema tickets. A polished metal flask, small sized one, maybe a couple of small cups worth, a curious thing to see someone carrying to the cinema on a summer night. They juggle these between them as they get ready, he watches her pull on a smart black jacket, then she takes the stuff back. He is wearing jeans, with a key chain hanging, and a blue t-shirt with some mass produced design on it, as he pulls the boot of the car down I’m conscious of his biceps, this guy works out. With the chocolate in her pocket, the flask in one hand, tickets in other hand, she exits the alley and heads round corner to cinema. He pulls on his crumpled green jacket, and follows.

Pescatarian Photoshop

2009-06-24T15:49:00.000+01:00

In the basement of this bookshop there is a branch of one of the chain coffee shops. One of those places I often wander to on a Sunday afternoon after a browse. Its quite late on this time, hitting closing, I’ve cancelled what I planned to do due to a headache – decided to grab a coffee before just heading home, maybe relax a little, read a little, see if the headache will go away before driving. It’s the same three members of staff that are usually on at this time. The blonde girl, with short hair, usually clasps, a huge chunk of hair gone dark – a style or neglect? The girl with the Gaelic name that looks unpronounceable, with the dark hair in a pony tail, always giggling as she is mocked by the others. The guy, with short dark hair, burly, bit of a spiked style, always probing the girls with his questions. Today the blonde takes orders, the guy makes orders, the Gael is on cleaning tables – last time the girls were the other way round. He says something, blonde says – no, I’m a pescatarian. A what? It means I eat fish. He gets scornful, tries to come up for what it would mean if someone only ate chicken. She isn’t impressed. As I approach the counter I scan the shop, spot the staff, the customers. There is a girl near the counter, fuzzy hair, tied back. She has a pad on the table in front of her, scans me as I scan her – and I wonder, is she writing me as I will writer her? How curious. She packs her bag as I take a seat, meticulous in the way she does so, only so much space, and so many things. Behind me a group, a family across two tables, who just seem to be sprawled, killing time, only fragments of conversation carry. Two teenage boys, one with a “fantasy art book” he is paging through – why is it all photoshopped instead of drawn – he complains loudly. Turns out the coffee shop closes earlier than the book shop, so rather than spend an hour relaxing, I feel more hurried. People are turned away - we're closed. Book staff member comes round with a guy, has whatever he has lost been handed in - nope. So I drink up and leave, hitting the super market for headache pills on my way home.

One Armed Bandit (A Title Too Hard To Resist)

2009-06-23T11:12:00.006+01:00

Two guys and a woman swagger down the street. The two guys in sleeveless t-shirts - its been a warm day. They have that air to them, that says they would cause trouble at the best of times. They have that air to them that says they’ve been drinking. The taller guy is the more threatening - a base ball cap, base ball shoes, stamping on the ground, talking loudly, his gait that of someone looking for a fight. There is a plastic bottle of water on the ground, half full, he takes a good swing and kicks it hard, so that when it lands it does so with a hearty thump. The two policemen in their bright yellow jackets stop and turn around. They watch the guy continue to roll down the street. The senior of the two gives a nod, and the two policemen approach the trio. The big guy sees this and puts off the next kick, instead bending to pick up the bottle, announcing loudly that he is just going to put it in the bin, walking by the police as though they couldn’t possibly be wanting to talk to him. But they persist, so he turns, and in doing so, I can see for the first time that he only has 1 arm, the other a stump below the shoulder. But his body language remains aggressive even if is placatory enough that they are allowed to walk away, though the police watch every step, waiting for him to act up again.

Update. It’s about a week later the next time I see the one armed guy. He is taking on the role of the homeless man, whether he is or isn’t I can’t say. He is obviously part of one of the groups of these people you see. He sits by one of those concrete posts in the pedestrian part of the street, which don’t seem to serve any apparent purpose. He leans his back against the pillar, sat cross legged, again a sleeveless t-shirt to emphasize his body – shouting at people that pass for money, waving that stump around in an exaggerated, look at me, look at me fashion. A couple of feet in front of him the rest of the group sit on one of the street benches, black metal bars welded into shape. There are about four of them, all scruffy and ragged, like most of the homeless you see in the city. When there are no people passing he chatters with them, as though they are taking turns – its his shift to collect money, while they put their feet up and chew the fat.

Car Cage

2009-06-22T08:49:00.002+01:00

Driving to work, I spot a car ahead of me with a cage on it’s roof. Balanced on a roof rack its several foot square. Its bright and clean and painted, one pair of sides is painted white, the other pair of side is painted red. Like something out of a circus I can’t help but think. And I get to wondering why he doesn’t have an animal in there – perhaps a tiger, pacing back and forth while he drives. How bizarre that would be! But then its not a particularly big cage, and transporting any animal like that would likely be cruel, and in the end, I have no idea what that cage is really for.

Cat vs Cat

2009-06-22T08:49:00.001+01:00

It’s just before 7am. The streets are entirely quiet. The only sign of life as I pull out into the main road is two cats. One white with black, crouched and defensive. One black with white, overbearing, a familiar bully amongst the local cat population. The two of them stare at each other, oblivious and uncaring as I turn and leave them behind me.

Visit To Parcel Depot

2009-06-19T08:54:00.000+01:00

Wednesday I get the email – next day delivery on that CD/DVD pack you ordered. And I wonder, how big is this thing? Will it fit through the box? What are the chances? Sometimes, a particularly shitty postman will leave parcels on the door step. Thursday and I’m watching the rain bouncing off the ground and planning who to curse first if I get home to find a soggy parcel on the doorstep. Fortunately, its been done properly. Its too big for the letter box, so they’ve left a card – we tried to deliver, you can pick up from parcel office. Parcel office is fine, its on my way to work anyway. The parcel office is open from 7am till 12 noon. Which leaves a pretty narrow window for someone working. But Friday comes, and I pass there about 7am ish most days. So I stop, grab the postcard and head round the back of the post office, weaving path, various gates. There are new signs up now, parcel office this way, go here, go there, do not cross this line – the van park, delivery entrance is on other side of the fence, they must get people crossing over all the time or something. On the bright red door, another sign, ring bell and enter. So I do, but it never seems to make a difference. The little entrance way, the glass windowed counter, the little office behind with pigeon holes stacked up, odd shaped parcels all over. There is a grey door, locked, with a glass panel, its got vertical stripes clear then white, so you can just see the movement of figures on the other side. But I wait. A woman passes the window on other side of office, catches sight of me, shouts be there in a minute. No worries, I smile, and wait. She takes the card, and like always, the parcel is never in that room, she has to go somewhere else to find it. I take it, thank her, and leave. On the way back out, a right here, a left there, a right here, and so on, there is an older man coming in, squat and balding, looking harried, clutching his own familiar postcard, I hold one of the intervening doors open for him and then exit. In front of the post office, another car has just parked behind me. A body builder type gets up, wide chest, big arms, tight t-shirt, short, short hair, and sure enough he too is clutching one of those postcards. Everyone hitting that 7am opening on their way to work, so I climb into my car, and go to work.

Work Character (2)

2009-06-19T08:53:00.000+01:00

The student is a summer placement. One of those unnaturally tall youth who remind you that that you are getting old and that all the kids are so tall these days. Bit of a floppy hair cut, without being particularly long. The stooped shoulders you often get with someone so tall and skinny. He plays the game, shirt and tie like the rest of us weary professionals. But he has a perpetual smile on his face, which is bemusing. Fridays are dress casual today, so today he looks more like a student than ever, green branded t-shirt, a big baggy backpack on his shoulders and a thick grey fleecy hoodie. occasionally you'll hear snatches of him regaling bemused old guys with youngster's stories - like the time he went paint balling for his 18th birthday, and they were firing at him non-stop as he ran for it, and somehow only hit his gun, or that fancy dress party, and there were two guys in the back dressed as Men In Black, really. He has that habit of going into too much detail, geeky detail, a sincere form of TMI as he bobs his head and grins. The other day someone asked him to do something, and he laughed, that’s one of those tricks isn't it, that you play on the new guy, next you'll be sending me for tartan paint! Like I say, its Friday, Friday is bacon roll day, in an hour or so, he'll go round his department with a post-it pad taking people's orders. Maybe glance at us, squatters on their floor, even if we were here first.

Little Trouble In George Square.

2009-06-18T08:45:00.001+01:00

We’re sitting in a bar along side George Square, with a window seat.
In the square we spot a young couple, she is lying on her back and we
aren’t sure how she got there. She kicks her legs, martial arts style,
as though she is Bruce Lee and is about to pounce to her feet in an
impressive fashion. Instead she looks more like the cast of TISWAS
doing the dying fly. He stands over her, offering to pull her to her
feet. After a couple of attempts she gives up and takes hi hand. Once
on her feet she starts to unbutton her top. We look at each other in a
wait a minute fashion. But she only takes the blouse off, shoves it in
her fat white hand bag. Standing there with a dark blue vest top and
pale blue denim shorts. She swings her bag around, takes a fighters
stance and they circle. But sensibly he stays out of her range. Then
they move over to sit on the plinth of one of the square’s statues for
a bit. Then they are up again, she pounces, he retreats, but she has
his leg, and he goes down. So she sits on him. A bus goes by, blocking
our view. When its clear again, he is now sitting on top of her.
People are passing the whole time, it’s a typical Saturday night. Some
slow and comment, bemused by events, some apparently concerned that he
is attacking her, but its quickly clear that they are just kids
playing games. Back to sit at the statue, she must be feeling cold -
he takes his shirt off and drapes it round her shoulders - despite the
fact her own top is in her bag. Then he stands and smokes while she
remains seated. Once he is done, she stands up, slips her arms into
the sleeves and they continue on their way across the square.

Kisses On The Neck.

2009-06-17T09:36:00.000+01:00

She is skinny and young. Slight vest top, green with grey stripes.
Baggy hipster jeans, with her hips showing like icebergs, jutting out
from the flesh and threatening to take you down. She stands up from
the table, pulling the bag of college books up to her shoulder. He has
a goatee, and a Watchmen smilie cap on his head. He wears a black
t-shirt with the Autobot Transformer logo on it. Sunglasses throw a
petrol reflection from where they stowed in at the neck of his
t-shirt. He is playing with his phone, still sat at the tables. She
paces before getting bored waiting, and leans over him and kisses his
neck - repeatedly and with loud smacking lip sounds each time. Which
she does until he takes the hint, and stands up, and the couple leave
hand in hand.

Muscle Boy. Funny Idiot.

2009-06-16T21:23:00.000+01:00

Muscle boy. The coffee shop in Buchanan Street is where I most often see him loitering. He seems to spend hours there. Always wearing a sleeveless green t-shirt, showing off his rippling muscles, a hat and sunglasses - regardless of the weather. Usually he gives the impression that he is only there to talk to girl, always hitting on someone, regaling the latest attractive woman with his stories of how cool he is, between flexing those tattooed arms. The girls usually have glazed expressions, nodding in a way that says they are politely humouring him. Tonight he is standing outside with a shaggy haired guy with a beard, and they are talking to a pair of girls. The body language says that if he stops talking for a second they will leave so fast, their bodies already half turned in preparation. I carry on to the book shop and potter about before going for a coffee in there. And muscle boy appears, I’ve never seen him in this one, so I am surprised. But apparently has friends waiting here for him. After a while they pass me on the way out. Muscle boy clowning around, dancing to the music, but in a gorilla fashion, stomping his feet, slumping his shoulders and swinging his arms. His friends nudge each other and snigger, exchanging “what is he like” glances. He reaches the exit, pulls himself up straight and muscled, and spins on the spot, before stepping out like he was something from Zoolander. The girl coming giggles as she passes, shakes her head, funny idiot.

Some Of Us Don't Want To Be Here.

2009-06-16T20:08:00.001+01:00

In the noodle bar, a young woman, barely twenty, loudly over confident. With an old man, presumably her grandfather? She is overweight, a big girl, dark hair, in a bun, glasses, a green cardigan over a t-shirt and blue jeans. He is bald on top, but has eccentric hair, flaring back and long at the back, pronounced and bushy. She goes to the ladies, sat at the far end of a table so she goes round. On the way back she decides to cut along between tables - where the space is particularly narrow. With no attempt to excuse herself she bumps into me as she passes - hard, without warning, for a second it feels like I’ve been punched and I’m quite surprised. Once food arrives she makes a big deal about explaining it all to the old man. He struggles to grasp the purpose of the chop sticks as he tries to stab the tempura with one in each hand. The bento box arrives, which he places to one side, nervously, clearly not quite ready to approach it. She is condescending in her attitude towards him, and he understandably looks uncomfortable about the whole thing.

Ghost Station (3&4)

2009-06-11T10:31:00.001+01:00

Texaco the sign used to say. That familiar logo on a big display, the current fuel prices listed below. There used to be a mini-supermarket to go with it. Almost all petrol stations these days have shops – but some have shops, and some have mini-supermarkets. But of course, now, this has neither. They’ve torn out the pumps, the nubs of concrete plinths remain. This was one of the biggest stations in the area, so its now a big empty concrete space, with a carapace suspended by steel struts. There is a red brick wall along the street line, crumbling now, the remains of bricks at the corners turning to flakes. There is a fence round the property, to stop people getting in, no doubt a safety measure. But a half hearted one for all that, often you’ll see kids in groups in that concrete space, kicking a ball back and forth.

After the Texaco there is one last ghost station in this radius, but its hardly worth mentioning. Just another empty lot now, like the crumbling old bingo hall a few doors up, which was burnt out last summer, perhaps the year before. Two empty spaces, levelled, waste ground now. Proper fences round the sites now, painted and spiked. The occasional digger trawling across the ground as though something might happen at some point. Ok. A word or two about it. Its beside the post office, in the mornings the vans park up on the pavement in front of the station. It used to be a BP one, which crumbled apart. The pumps were attacked, the facings coming off, the guts of the pump open to the environment, all going brown and orange. One of those place you think – next time I pass, I will stop and take pictures – till they throw an 8 foot high wooden fence round it, a security sign. For a while we thought they were refurbishing, doing something new, then the wooden fence came down, metal rails went up, and its sat empty, ever since. I think this one was the first to go, if memory serves.

Ghost Station (2)

2009-06-11T09:34:00.001+01:00

Five miles from here, and five miles from there, on a country road, dotted by lonely cottages, and isolated bus depots, there is a petrol station. Strike that – there was a petrol station. I remember stopping there, during the night, the guy telling me how at the weekend some guys stopped by demanded all the money from the cash register, or they would burn him out. Freaky times, he was shaken. Probably not long after that they stopped being 24 hours, who needs the risk of being alone in the middle of nowhere if someone decides to rob you? It survived for a while longer. But it didn’t survive. A casualty of the fuel wars. An isolated, independent station, prices soar, people go elsewhere, it takes longer to go through stock, so they can’t catch price dips quick enough. One thing leads to another and it sits empty, orange traffic cones, with the luminous bands set out to cover the entrance. The sign where the prices were displayed flakes and crumbles, the scratched and marked “clear” plastic door clatters with the passage of cars. A circus has stopped, and slid a poster in there so that those passing see the advert, it stays there, even after the circus has been and gone. The guy who owns the place has taken steps now, revived his ghost property. For safety he got a load of wood panels, constructed frames round each of the pumps, boxed them in so that hopefully no one will hit them, no one will blow them up with the ghosts of fumes. And now he runs a shop there, from 6am to 5pm, cars stop for bread, milk, newspapers, for hot rolls and cold drinks. I’ve been in a few times, looking for milk, but usually their shelves are half empty – waiting for delivery. At that time it was still spring, and a young girl stood behind the counter, a huge thick jacket on, her arms across her chest, shivering between the need to serve periodic customers. The owner, pottering around in the back, his sports car parked outside – a relic of better days?

Ghost Station (1)

2009-06-11T09:26:00.001+01:00

The flutter of polly bags catches my eyes sitting at the lights. The bags are looking a bit bedraggled now, how many years have they been there? Wrapped round the nozzles of the petrol pumps. This abandoned corner, which if it had been built after a certain point would have been illegal – there are clear access laws about the access and exit of fuel trucks, of where pipes stick out from the ground, of how a garage is run – this place, stuck in a corner of the road, concreted into the top of a hill, breaks everyone of those. But it’s a dead station now anyway, one of many in this area, it used to be one of the few 24 hour stations – you’d pass late at night and folk out of the pub would be wandering up to the window, or taxis pulling over. No more. Its closed. Even for a while, someone bought it over and did run it just as 24 hour shop, but that’s gone too. Now? Now it’s a car wash, one of those micro businesses that sprung up, another car wash of many that sprung up – populated by Eastern Europeans, sat on boxes looking sad and weathered during the quiet moments, working the production line of soapy cars when its busy. While all around them the infrastructure of an already old station just gets older every day, greyer paint jobs, rustier exposed points. Some of the others have been gutted, reduced to lots with fences round them, but this one remains, particularly abandoned at 7am, ghost station.

The Way You Look At Me With Your Goldfish Mouth.

2009-06-10T21:21:00.000+01:00

Two girls wander through stationary. Long dark hair, purple duffel coat, and a turquoise hoodie, with black jeans, and a kind of khaki grey satchel. The other shoulder length brown hair, fitted white coat, brown leather hand bag, blue jeans. They have been browsing separately, but their paths bring them together at a junction between shelves. They say something cheerfully to each other, then smile, as they take the other girl’s face between their hands in a clapping motion - which almost looks like a double mini-slap. Then they mouth at each other like goldfish, or perhaps like they are singing in a particularly exaggerated fashion. They do this for a moment, before releasing each other, and hurrying off to join a third girl who is waiting for them so they can leave.

Feeding Cheese To Pigeons

2009-06-10T21:18:00.000+01:00

Two girls wander down the street together. T-shirts, brown hair, tied back. Sunglasses propped on their heads. Shorts and flat trainers. One has purple shirt and purple socks. The other bright orange shirt and socks. They walk slowly, looking back at the man feeding the birds. He sits on the stub end of the entrance to Buchanan St Underground. Me in middle, three kids to my right, him to my left. A plastic container of chips and cheese. He flicks contributions to the pigeons, a dozen vying for scraps. Till a seagull swoops down, throwing his weight around, twice the size of any of the other birds, it snaps down the biggest portion in one bite. Two friends stop to talk to the guy, so the seagull gets bored and wanders off. But the pigeons are persistent and wait for the friends to wander off. Once he is finished eating, he puts the tray down and the pigeons fire in at every scrap of cheese, a dozen pecking enthusiastically. The boys wander off, and are replaced by a passing blonde girl. Big curls and sunglasses. A white floaty skirt. Her shoes are thick soled, clumpy. She slips them off, puts on the first sticking plaster which is already in her hand, then pulls out a couple more from her bag. Plasters in place, she continues on her way. By then, all the cheese is gone, the last half of the pigeons wander in circles waiting to see if anything else happens. The guy lights a cigarette and strolls away.

Work Character (1)

2009-06-10T09:19:00.000+01:00

This guy is like the classic Mr. Bean character, cranked up to a special level of the grotesque. This morning he is walking round to the passenger side of the car, doing something there, while his brief case still sits on the ground on the passenger side. Whatever he is doing, it is footery enough that despite being out of his car before me, I am still at the back door of the building well before he is. Everyone walks rounds the path from the car park to the security door, but as I swipe my pass through the reader, I glance to the right, and there he is – striding across the grass, which will have involved a clamber over a hill, and taking a path no one else takes. And it gets me to thinking about this strange man. Yesterday, he was coming in behind me, on the path, a great big handkerchief at his nose, trumpeting like a dying elephant, like an elephant dying of some vile and excessively viscous plague. The sort of sound you really want to take a stick to keep him at bay while shouting – go home! You are too ill!

His car is a small thing. An old thing. A kind of car they don’t make anymore. Not quite one of those clichéd 3 wheeled things, but it looks like it got that fourth wheel under false pretences. It’s tiny, old, rusting, blue. One day the boss said he was coming in on the motorway, and there was this car in front of him, it was all over the road. He could see the driver, who seemed to be twitching and spasming like a man possessed. A hazard to all around him the boss insisted, so he was horrified when this tiny, old, rusting, blue car came off where he did, took the turns he did, parked in same car park as he did. As you see the guy wander around you see those little twitches – the “mannerisms”. He is a tall man, with great bulbous belly, like someone who is ex-forces gone to seed some time ago. His hair has a peculiar shade, a peculiar texture; it only seems to cover peculiar parts of his head – is it real? The speculation is that its not. But if you were going to wear a hair piece, surely you would get one that covered more than that?

Poison Ivy, A Rabbit And A Kangaroo Dance In The Street.

2009-06-07T13:23:00.001+01:00

Walking down Buchanan St and I spot a girl in a green leotard, green net tights, a bright red wig, and carrying a bucket. Of course, I notice her before I notice the guys in the kangaroo and rabbit outfits, but they certainly register next. It’s a city of sound today, I’ve just passed a bongo player and the requisite guy playing Oasis covers, further down from this point are the four teens in kilts, playing drums and bagpipes. The kangaroo and rabbit jump around, rocking hips back and forth in a crazy dance - the rabbit is short, pink, really getting into it. I step out of the flow of people, and fish in my bag for my camera, but too late. The kangaroo gives up first, whips off the kangaroo head and stands there looking too hot in this outfit. The rabbit takes the hint and gives up, and I lose the potential for the shot, as they turn and head back up the road. But the girl dressed as Poison Ivy takes a moment to give rabbit man a huge hug, and they all laugh.

Secret Signing

2009-06-06T14:22:00.001+01:00

At first there is only one girl at the information desk, then two. There are announcements for members of staff to call a number. Couple minutes later there are 4 girls at the info desk. All dressed differently, but the name badges on lanyards and the red uniform shirt. Three of them chatter. One disappears to be replaced by a guy. He carries his shirt screwed up in his hand - just starting his shift as he puts it on when done here. He picks up the card, reads what everyone else wrote, then adds his contribution. Another member of staff’s birthday? The rest summoned to the information desk hidden at the back of the store to take turns signing it in secret.

A Little Slap & Tickle

2009-06-06T14:21:00.001+01:00

Two guys and a girl walk along. She is wearing a brown summer dress, with bare arms and shoulders. She shorter of the two guys reaches out, gives her arm a quick light slap. She yelps a little at the contact, turns on the taller guy, who is her boyfriend judging by her reaction. She starts to tell him off, despite his protests, which go ignored. The shorted guys face going red with suppressed laughter. She turns back the direction they are walking and the tall guy punches his friend - thanks!

Smiling In A Happy Fashion

2009-06-05T22:27:00.000+01:00

She sits in the corner of the carriage. A mass of barely contained curls, unruly and wild on her head. She wears a short sleeved, cut off cardigan over a vest top. A mass of barely contained cleavage threatening to pop from plunging neckline. Blue jeans, black sports shoes, a black branded bag, something professional, then a big hand bag, white, with pink flowers. She footers with her MP3 player the entire journey. Watching its bright screen, pink head phone cables swallowed by the valley. The music is loud, across the aisle we can hear a woman’s voice, some pop snarl, and slow soul beats. I glance over at the start of a new song, and she is just smiling in a happy fashion. While everyone else looks bored or anticipatory - people checking their hair, their make-up, reading the free papers. Not happy, not obviously.

School Train

2009-06-05T21:30:00.000+01:00

Arriving at the station I realise it’s the school train. At this point I am the only adult customer. Girls and boys sitting on every surface. Short skirts, short sleeves, sunglasses. 8am and its already 20C. Even the woman selling tickets is tiny - taking a break from her big bowl of little cereal O’s to take my money. As we get nearer the train time more adults arrive. But as we board and they yelp and call names, the kids compete for seats, to be sat by their friends, just as they do every morning.

Boasts of last nights adventures. Jumping, shouting and kicking. Swaggering bravados and their hangers on, made up girls looking bored by the same old banter. More artfully dolled up lolitas with lush blonde hair and tiny shorts watching other girls going by, and criticising their fashion choices. Balancing absurdly large and chic hand bags on their laps.

A Familiar Dance

2009-06-04T19:54:00.000+01:00

A boy of about 10 walks along the street. Traffic whizzing by on this busy afternoon. Its sunny, so he is wearing shorts and a t-shirt. Cheerfully he is in mid-swig from a bottle of cold juice. Sighing content, he screws the cap back on. But in mid-twist, he stops, and jumps. He does a familiar dance. Head back, startled. Shoulder turning, his body twisting. His foot raised for flight. Eyes full of how startled he is. The steps are ones so many of us have done before, most folk would recognise those motions, be able to join in. That dance called - WASP!

Bleeding Buses

2009-06-04T19:32:00.000+01:00

A woman sits in the bus shelter. Long dark hair. A haggard face. She wears a white top, something blue beneath that. White jeans. She sucks on a cigarette, watches for the bus. He rakes through a bag, back to the street, standing by her side. She has a big blotch of blood at her nose, covering her top lip, but she seems entirely too casual for that.

Got It!

2009-06-03T15:02:00.000+01:00

I’m in the centre of Glasgow for a day course, an unfamiliar building, unfamiliar people. We’ve stopped the session for lunch, had a bite to eat, and all individually filtered outside to enjoy the sunshine. On my way out I stop at the gents, in front of which there is one of a number of open “public” areas. Here there are two sofas and a table. The guy sits with his back to the wall. He is young, maybe 18 or 20, doing his best to look smart and professional. She is a few years older, blonde and more casual. She wears a vest top appropriate to the weather, dipping neckline showing off ample and bright pink cleavage – it looks tender and sunburnt. There is something about the little of the conversation I hear, of the body language that says this is an interview. Though having it in such an open space seems a little odd to me. As I head down the stairs it sounds like they are wrapping up. A minute later, as I stand outside scanning the shops in this street decide where I’m going to go in the fifteen minutes I have available to me, he comes outside. He looks at me, recognising me from a moment ago, and he grins, he pumps the air with his fist. Shouts - Got it! Before happily wandering down the street, now pushing the buttons of the phone that was clamped in his fist, keen to share the good news.

The Last Noise

2009-06-03T11:24:00.005+01:00

There's a little child in the office. Someone brought him in and now he's making noise like you've never heard in your life. It is a screech, it is a quack, it is a bellow, it is a sneeze it is a toot. It is all of those at the same time. It is Old Mac Donald's Farm regurgled into one diapered little body.
The screech penetrates the walls of the meeting room and those inside twitch.
"That's the sound of the bird pig flu", one of them quips. A hint of Stephen King's Last Stand settles on the meeting.

Tiger Idyll in the Zoo

2009-06-02T20:58:00.007+01:00

The great big tiger has his great fuzzy head backed up right against the glass wall. There is a mere nothing, a few centimeters of invisible glass separating his chewing maw from the tourists, and the tourists, big and small, are full of excitement.
The great big tiger ignores them. He is chewing at a haunch of some kind, there is only a small leap of imagination separating it from a human leg. He rips unfussily through the tendons and the yellowish skin. Stringy gobs of meat dangle from it like a dancer's fringe and twitch impetuously. The great big tiger has great fuzzy ears and dinner plate sized paws to give you a dinner plate sized smack across your gob and knock your teeth out. His great big body stretches lazily along the glass wall. His paws are round and tender and strong as they dig into their prey.
The tourists have only very tiny silver cameras infront of their faces and flash red lights into his face, but the tiger isn't bothered. He tosses and teases his haunch coquettishly and his tail lies curled up and peaceful on the ground.
The tiger's tiger friend comes over to look at the haunch but the tiger ignores him too. Then the tiger friend throws himself on his back and rolls around on the ground like a purring cat to distract him. The tiger raises his head in disdain and chews.
In the back, two tiger kids pause their play to prick their ears to a sound. One shakes his hear earlier and seeing his friend still preoccupied, lunges forward and bites him in the foot. This is cat humour, and there is a look of predictable cat smugness about him as his friend jumps and dashes away. The usurper thrones on the clearing like a prince. In the bushes, a smarty pawed avenger plots his return.
The great big tiger chews his haunch. Bloodied strings of meat dangle serenely from his jaws.

Mothers & Daughters. Ice Cream & Ice Pops.

2009-06-01T21:46:00.000+01:00

A group of women from the local community come into the gardens. With their brightly coloured saris, pushing prams, daughters in more subdued clothes trotting behind. There is a large Muslim community locally, this was the venue for the annual Sufi festival just a few years ago. They do a circuit of the gardens, coming back round the woody path to the lawn. They spread out a blanket. The mothers sit in a huddle - bright clothes, dark hair in pony tails, and dark skin. Daughters pottering around them.

Three boys play football on the grass. Kicking the ball back and forth. Goals made from discarded toys. At a couple of points the ball clatters into the tables. Knocking chairs flying. I am so sorry, the boy who comes for the ball shouts, in a voice that says he is being a smart arse, loud and sarcastic, but no one can say he didn’t make the gesture. At one of the tables his mother sits with the younger kids, he shouts at her - can I have an ice cream? Don’t be stupid, she shouts back, why would you want an ice cream? Ice cream is the most inconvenient food, she explains, who ever thought it would be a good idea for this kind of weather was daft! But I want one, he informs her. You’ll just make a mess, besides, we’ve got ice cream at home, you can wait, she concludes changing tactics.

In mean time, the little girl has trotted off to where the group of women in saris are sitting. At this point they are distributing ice pops to the girls. They obviously have enough to share, as the little girl shortly comes trotting back sucking on a bright yellow shaft of flavoured ice. Where did you get that? The mother asks. The girl points back at the group. Did you say thank you? The mother asks. The girl says no. You go back there right now and say thank you! The mother snaps. The girl backs away, sucking at the ice, but not going back. If you don’t go back and say thank you, I’ll take it off you! Two of the daughters trot up, and a conversation breaks out, the two girls looking at the mother and wondering what all the fuss is about, they gave the girl an ice pop. Big deal.

Eventually the little girl finishes the ice pop. Bins the polythene wrapper. Then trots back and announces - I think I’ll go get another. The mother snaps again, don’t you dare, that would be so rude! The other girls pass again, she doesn’t have her shoes, one of them observes curiously. Yeah, I don’t know where she has lost them, the mother says. One of the group of mothers comes by, the mother leans over, are they your daughters? The woman says they are, lovely girls, she observes, lovely girls. Which probably translates as - well behaved and do as they are told, unlike my kids.

Dinner In The Garden.

2009-06-01T21:24:00.001+01:00

The staff take their breaks in the gardens. A coffee and a book, with his feet up. When I arrive it’s a guy, highlighting key sections of that books. When I have my dinner it’s a girl with curly hair and red framed glasses. Beneath the table she has an Obama bag, fist pumping victory. She eats a salad, then reads a floppy book, makes a phone call, receives congratulations from one of the other girls who stops by between clearing tables. When I talk to you on the phone its an American girl. She complains on the phone how they have too much staff, how she has to keep taking breaks. She leaves through pages of a magazine. She drinks coffee, while explaining she has a change of clothes, she will buy booze on the way to the party. Then someone else she tells about missing family and how hard it is to be so far away. We chat and laugh till my phone goes dead. So I go back to reading my book, drinking a cold drink.

To Sun or Not To Sun

2009-06-01T21:09:00.000+01:00

A group have dragged chairs onto the grass. Up against the fence. Using its shade as shelter. Two girls sit nearest the fence. Strangely wrapped in blankets/shawls as though it were cold. When in fact its easily the hottest day of the year so far. The guys sit further out, as though in the shade by accident. The creeping line of the trees thrown. Patterned dark and light, provided by the leaves of those trees behind the fence.

Further up, two girls lie on a blanket they’ve dragged into the shade. The sun is burning hot, and I’m starting to suspect I’ve been fool hardy to sit in its full beam myself. One of them adjusts her straw hat, protecting her head. By contrast, two girls and a guy are the only people sprawled on the garden’s lawn. Bare legs and bellies on the girls, bare chest on him. Slathering on sun lotion as they soak up the full rays.

Hide 'n' Seek

2009-06-01T20:34:00.000+01:00

The kids run through the trees in the hidden gardens. One of them left behind, behind the brick wall, where the hot houses are, counting at the top of her voice. As the others scatter, diving behind bushes, disappearing round to the island, making for the gazebo in the woods, hiding behind walls. One trailing, a tottering girl child shouting - wait for me! As the others vanish into their hiding places. The boys wear t-shirts and shorts, or short sleeved shirts hanging baggy. The girls in sleeveless summer dresses. The youngest of a group of three sisters wears orange, with stripes, and white leggings, her hair tied in two buns. The second wears green with black leggings, her hair tied in a tail. The oldest is wild and free and grown up, she wears a short red dress that billows with her movement, white polka dots across it, her hair flying free, bare legs, she canters like a wild foal as she gallops with the delight of summer.

A Door Flung Open.

2009-06-01T17:46:00.001+01:00

The clunky transit van stops in the exit from the petrol station. The door flung open, as a portly Indian guy steps out and rushes back to the pump. The door lying open beside him, no doubt keys in the ignition. I can only guess that he has left his credit card in the pump, since that station is one of the few with direct pump payment units. The lights turn green and I drive on.

Hoping For The Final.

2009-06-01T17:45:00.000+01:00

At the weekend there is a group of teens that hang around at the intersection of Buchanan St and Sauchiehall St, sitting on the steps of the Royal Concert Hall. They have a hip hop fashion, mixed with American sport’s shirts. There are an unusual number of black kids amongst the group, though the style is the same regardless, as they lope around loud and cheerful in those bright shirts and baggy trousers. Walking along Sauchiehall there are three skinny young teenagers, perfectly “respectable” looking. One has a white shirt, which sits open, I can’t see what he is wearing under it. But as three of the hip hop kids come towards them and me, the last one starts to shout - Orlando final! He names teams, presumably related to who he and the other kid support. The kid doing the shouting doesn’t sounds like he is from Glasgow at all, his accent not local, perhaps its more London. The kid in the white shirt nods and smiles, happy and uncertain. The shouting kid grins and trots to catch up with his friend, the guy in white shirt does the same.

That Hot Chocolate Is Too Big, Actually.

2009-05-29T15:59:00.001+01:00

The little girl wanders through the tables trying to decide where to sit. Once served the other girl arrives with a tray. An older sister? They have a similar look, but there is maybe 10 years between them. The younger is wearing a flashy silver and black top and black trousers, kind of kid smart. The elder hangs her red/purple velvet jacket on the back of the seat, though it slumps down behind her. Beneath that she is wearing a baggy green jumper, with its sleeves pushed back determinedly to the elbow. To go with that big baggy jeans, with bulky stuffed pockets. And flat, blue sandshoes with rainbows and birds on them. She has a ring through either side of her lower lip, a stud through an eyebrow. Her hair is dyed a lilac colour, straight, reaches down just by her chin. The tray has a fat sandwich, cut in half, stacked together, and a huge cup of hot chocolate. On the saucer there are a couple of pieces of chocolate flake and a handful of pink and white marshmallows. You help yourself, the older girl says, I’ll eat the sandwich then have some. The little girl strains to lift the cup with both hands, struggling. Its pretty heavy, she admits. The older says something, and the little girl trots to the till. The girl there has to bend to hear her talking, before handing her a tea spoon. Back to the table, and she carefully attacks the hot chocolate a spoonful at a time. Once she is done with the sandwich the older asks if its ok is she has one of the marshmallows? She lifts a pink one, poised between finger tips, she dips it into the cup. By now the little girl is more interested in some toy that she has just bought, so the older drags the huge cup to sit in front of her, dipping the untouched flake into the chocolate.

Balloon & Boots

2009-05-28T09:42:00.000+01:00

The ads have started in the half empty cinema hall and the lights are still on. At the front there is an aisle which separates the main seats from a couple of rows that are too close to the screen. Floating above those - a bright yellow balloon. The over familiar logo of a fast food chain clearly visible as it just hangs there. Where did it come from? I don’t recall passing it on the way in. It hangs there, all nonchalant and balloon like, before it dips self-consciously. Drifting to the floor, and wafting towards to the side of the hall, hoping to be forgotten.

Wild blonde hair, tangles of snakes. A blue dress and leopard print tights. She stamps up the cinema steps with chunky army boots as she follows her boyfriend to the back of the hall. Complaining, she wanted something, wanted to do something. Once they are sat she shucks off her hoodie, and goes back out again. Stomping again, her dress strappy, thin lines leaving shoulders bare, and a rectangle of back, with a line of hieroglyphics up her spine. Five minutes later, she comes back, stomping up the stairs with those boots again.

Fruit Scone

2009-05-28T09:39:00.000+01:00

I am waiting to be served. A paninini, a green tea, a bottle of fruit juice. Guy joins the line behind me with his daughter. Are we going to get sandwiches, she asks. Do you want a sandwich dear, then you grab a sandwich, he tells her cheerfully. The wife strolls up. You want something to eat darling? He asks her. A sandwich perhaps, he gushes. I’ll have a scone, she says, bluntly, in a voice which suggests she might hit him. How about one of those? He points at a mini loaf shaped cake thing. Its got pumpkin seeds and carrots, and he goes on to list the ingredients. A fruit scone, she snaps, in a voice that says I am now looking for a sharp instrument, I suggest you should prepare for death. How about the coffee and walnut cake, he suggests, it looks really good! Why did you drag me along today? She asks him, voice dripping with a life time of woe and burden. He starts to mutter his answer, but for once decides better of it. So, one of those, he points at the fruit scones, and we’ll half it between us love? She rolls her eyes, and a small, black, coffee, she punctuates carefully, in case he starts to list her the drink’s menu, before wandering off to find a table and glare daggers at him the whole time. He remains jovial, and miraculously when he does bring the order to the table he some how manages to get her laughing in the end.

Do You Sell Cork Screws?

2009-05-26T21:44:00.003+01:00

Supermarket still open late on a Saturday night, city centre. Guy is loading the shelves, wearing the burgundy short of staff colours. He tips cardboard boxes into a metal cage on wheels once he has emptied them. Excuse me, she says from behind him. Takes a moment for him to notice, to turn, do you sell cork screws? She asks it grinning when he turns, a clear subtext - its Saturday night and I’ve got a bottle of wine that needs opening! She is short. Japanese looks, American accent. Hipster style. Flat cap over short dark hair. Tight white jacket. A few inches of bare belly. A line of white knickers above the waist of her blue jeans. She radiates confidence that her friend doesn’t. A pale white girl, pale ginger hair. White t-shirt, white cardigan. Almost hiding behind a shelf until she realises that the shop boy and her friend have gone off looking for the cork screw, and she kind of darts after them with that - I don’t want to be left behind - kind of feel

Lets Not Sit With Them

2009-05-26T11:25:00.001+01:00

A couple come into the coffee shop place. He is a skinny guy with short dark hair, slightly spiked, and glinting diamond earrings. She is busty and blonde, her fringe dyed an intense pink, wearing a white t-shirt and black skirt. I make a double take, sure that I have already seen them in hear. I glance across the gallery to the opposite point from where I am sitting, and there they are, like clones. "Fuck's sake", the girl growls, "lets just not sit with them, please?" They go to the counter, a blind spot from the rest of the shop. I glance back across and the other couple has vanished. I guess the feeling was mutual? While the girls waits for the order, the guy decides to wander round despite her protests. But when he gets round to that side of the coffee shop he stops in his tracks and looks confused. He lowers himself to a table, staring at the point the other couple had been at, as though half expecting them to reappear. They don't. He gets up and goes back for his girl, the pair come back and sit at that same table. While the first couple are long gone.

Fancy Dress Party Takes To The Road.

2009-05-25T15:11:00.002+01:00

Sunday afternoon driving along a country road. Weaving curves and corners, fields for miles, rolling hills. There is a village behind me, a town five miles on, a scattering of farm houses here and there. As I take a turn I spot Robin Hood and Maid Marion walking along the road towards me, I dip out into other side of road to pass them. Then its three girls, with short skirts and huge fake afro wigs. Then a doctor and his wife who appears not to be dressed as anything in particular. A ballerina with a neon skirt up on the grass verge while I pass. And a medieval lord, with his tunics flapping in the freeze. How curious I think. Are they all on their way to or from a fancy dress party? 2pm on a Sunday afternoon – must have run pretty damn late! Or maybe its just getting ready to kick off, a barbeque in the sun? it is a holiday weekend for some. But them it’s a country road, why are they all walking in clumps like that? Why not getting lifts, or taxis? It’s a Sunday, certainly no buses out this way. Curious.

A Tale Of Two Cities.

2009-05-24T21:52:00.000+01:00

Girl member of staff. Long, straight, light brown hair. She wears a short skirt, over thick black tights. She has a staff blouse, the name of the book shop over the breast pocket. She wears it flapping open over a white t-shirt. Girl customer. Long black hair, thick curls, spilling on to the shoulders of her black hoodie. She wears blue jeans. The black hoodie flaps open over a white t-shirt. Staff girl’s t-shirt says in a familiar fashion “I <3 NY”, while by contrast or coincidence, the customer girls t-shirt says in a similar fashion “I <3 ROMA”. They wander around the store each unnoticed by the other.

Elaborate Moves.

2009-05-24T21:36:00.000+01:00

Two girls, part of a bigger group, waving amongst the tables of bargain books at the back of the shop. Both are blonde, to a varying extent. One looks quite smart, with jacket and handbag. The other much more casual, her hair a mop, wearing a patterned hoodie. They dance, just the pair of them, though seemingly not to the soul music that is playing. Rather some remembered moves which make them laugh. The mop spots a Spiderman book on one table, and they pretend to spray web at each other, weaving to avoid getting covered themselves. In the aisle they break into more elaborate moves - lined up in a centre point, one takes a jump-step left, the other right, knee dip, arms shifting into a wave - and grin! Their friends lean against tables, paging through big mass produced non-fiction books, stop and look up to watch. The pair giggle, and go further back, find their own book to leaf through, heads together as they chatter and laugh.