remote cards

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.

Labels: boys, gig, girls, glasgow, japanese, mono, music, spanish

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.

Labels: GFT, glasgow, howl's moving castle, kids, visitors

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.

Labels: friday, glasgow, night, visitors

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.

Labels: adam greenfield, advertising, breath deep, buddhist, food, girl, glasgow, jam, lily, nanowrimo, strathclyde, waiter, waitress

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.

Labels: coffee, girl, glasgow, guy, latte, wallet

“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.

Labels: bar, cafe, envelope, glasgow, mono, monorail, vegan, writing, you, zine

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.

Labels: concert hall, exchange, girls, glasgow, wallet

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.

Labels: bob and silent jay, glasgow, kevin smith

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.

Labels: cinema, girl, glasgow, guy, hate, love, red head

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.

Labels: bus, bus stop, couple, fighting, glasgow, old women, sunday

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.

Labels: glasgow, man, night, running, traffic

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?)

Labels: busker, girl, glasgow, guy

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.

Labels: girl, glasgow, phone, polish

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.

Labels: batman, girl, glasgow, guy, robin

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.

Labels: coffee, girl, glasgow, lollypop

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.

Labels: glasgow, man, non verbal, verbal, woman

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.

Labels: coffee, dancing, girls, glasgow, jackson, woman

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.

Labels: bar, cinema, dress, girl, glasgow, guys, zebra

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.

Labels: flower, girl, glasgow, tattoo

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.

Labels: cinema, glasgow, kebab