remote cards

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

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.

Labels: ars electronica, laptop, linz, man, wifi

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

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.

Labels: blonde, cheese, chips, glasgow, kids, man, pigeons, plasters, shoes

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.

Labels: daughter, fruit scone, glasgow, man, wife

Writer’s night. Though only a couple of us have turned up on this Thursday night, in this coffee house. We grab a table upstairs. Right at the top of the stairs, there are two guys in low slung chairs, which I guess look comfy. They are sprawled, arms reaching across the table to each other, holding hands.

The table we take is the only one which is big enough for four people, half way along the floor. At this end there are two other tables with people at them. Facing me, there is a table with two girls - one in a burgundy top, blonde hair, smart black trousers that are a little too tight when she stands. She has a soft face, makes her look like she is the younger of the two, though chances are they are of a similar age. The other girl, has a harder face, a more pronounced nose, darker hair, and is readily the more attractive of the two. She is wearing a taut white blouse, that strains against heavier breasts, even though its mostly unbuttoned, showing the black of the long sleeve top beneath. They’ve been here awhile, they’ve finished the tea and the cake that they bought, with Burgundy being a fidget, playing with the remains, when she isn’t playing with her phone. Black seems less interested, less engaged in the conversation, running her hand through her hair, pulling her cuffs over her fists, propping her chin on her hand.

In the corner, by the window, a man sits by himself. Hands propping up his head. He seems lost in thought, glancing out the window, staring into space. He has that “just out of work” look, jumper, with collar, shaven head. In front of him there is a large cup of coffee, looks like its mostly full, and a plate with an untouched slice of cake. Thoughts so deep that cake goes untouched, what thoughts! After a while, he pulls out a note pad, starts to write with determination. Tears the sheet off, leaves it sitting on table in front of him, it sits there for a while. Then he picks it up, hands beneath the table, he screws it into a ball, then you can hear the paper tearing.

Black says how she never goes dancing. Burgundy says they should, that perhaps they should take a class. Burgundy’s phone rings and she arranges to meet someone, at the Arches, beneath the station. She sits back and rubs her belly absently, conversation idle. Burgundy shows photos on her phone, then a badly recorded clip from some gig, where the sound distorts horribly. Black goes to the toilet. Then Burgundy takes her turn. They are winding up, looks like. But Burgundy stands, takes Black’s hand in hers, kisses her cheek, and leaves alone. Black watches her leave, watches her disappear into the street and round the corner.

Suddenly he takes a bite of the cake, after we’ve been here an hour. He is oblivious to everyone else, sitting in his corner, thinking. He doesn’t notice the girls, doesn’t notice Burgundy leave. Doesn’t notice when Black pulls out a notepad and pen. Her pad has a pink plastic, flowery cover, spiral bound side, pocket pad. Her pen has multiple colours, and she writes distractedly. He gets his pad out again, coincidentally, one of those reporter type pads, floppy, with spiral bound top. He just uses a black pen, and writes intently. He rips the page off, places it on the table, plonks the sugar shaker on top of it. She puts her note book away, pulls out a brochure, for some pharmaceutical company, flicks through it. He swigs the remains of his coffee, which must be at least two hours old. He places his car keys on the table, pulls his jacket on, with determination he doesn’t leave, he reaches for the paper, rest his hand on it, then forces himself. He stands, and exits.

She sees the empty table in the corner, with the window, and grabs her stuff and moves. She has the brochure ready to read, when she spots the sheet of paper. She starts to read the little she can see, then stops, bowing her head to read her stuff. Then she can’t resist, she picks up the sugar and reads the page, flips it over to read the other side. Holds it there, taking it in, absorbing it. Places it back down, puts the sugar back on top. She removes an application form from the brochure, folded in half, reads through it. She sits with her pen poised as though she is going to start filling it in, but decides to re-read it, make sure she has grasped the subtleties of the questions. Then she folds it, clearly bored, and unconvinced by the prospect. She shoves the brochure back in her bag, pulls on her jacket, and leaves.

Now that both tables are clear, I tell A about what they have been doing. And we both look at the sheet of paper sitting there. And we both look at each other. And we both look at the sheet of paper sitting there. He breaks first, gets up and wanders over to the table. Takes a quick look at the page, but doesn’t read it all. He comes back, it’s a love letter he says. The guy has written a love letter and left it on the table. Is it for one of the members of staff? That might make sense. Moments later, a couple come up the stairs. They spot the table in the corner, by the window, and she charges for it, her high heels clopping as she goes. Look, someone left a letter she declares instantly, and sits down to read it, how random is that she says on finishing. A pause, then, I’m going to hand this in, she gets back up, and clumps back down the stairs to hand the letter to the staff. We last a little longer in our writing, but leave soon after that. As we exit the building I glance back, and see that love letter to the wild, lying behind the counter, in captivity, perhaps gone unnoticed?

Labels: cafe, cake, love letter, man, tea, wild, woman, writing