Thursday, 18 June 2009
Little Trouble In George Square.
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.
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.
Labels: boy, george, girl, glasgow, saturday, square
Friday, 22 May 2009
Postcard from the Edinburgh Book Festival 2007
Postcard from the Edinburgh Book Festival
21st August 2007
Charlotte Square Gardens. A green square turned to mush. Wooden walk ways describe parameters, offering temporary floors to temporary bookshops, reading rooms and cafes. Every step is like being ocean bound, set off for foreign territory - clunk, sway, whoosh, sway, clunk- all aboard who are going aboard. The sky remains black, warns of stormy weather ahead.
Been travelling for days without food, time to stop at port, fill up on provisions. The cafe, overpriced of course - rip off sandwiches, the leftovers, toxic combinations, no sentient being would eat. The place is busy, the make-shift book shelves, cafe tables, societal claustrophobia laps, deep waves. So I risk outside. I eat, quickly, feeling myself sink into browning grass with each tasteless mouthful. Olives, tomatoes, cheese, ham, whatever else it is that’s in there - it all goes the same way.
I wander. Portacabin toilets, with that glorious festival smell. Hold your nose. Do your business. And move on. Move on. Godspeed to the courageous.
Guest of honour, on a lonely corner - loitering. Shoulder length hair, dark; fitted jacket, black; dress, cream coloured, knee length; legs, bare, nice; shoes, brown heels. At a guess a little older than me, but with a sharp attractiveness. An organiser arrives, offers a life line dear author. She smiles wanly, unconvinced. Wraps her hair back, left hand, fold behind right ear, more smiling and remember the polite chatter.
The site has an abandoned air, a curious silence informs this festival hub. People involved - children line up to get books signed, members of staff, book sellers. I look at the time. Again. The old American woman asks if I am sitting at the front of the queue or the end. I shrug, I don't know, I just sat down, and I suspect I'm not even going to the same event. I suggest she finds a chair and see what happens. But a glance suggests there aren't many chairs, so I give her mine, and wander closer to the venue. Joining the other loiterers, copies of MR.Y stick out, here and there. Listening to the laughter as a male author regales his audience in a nearby venue. Flick at midgies, who eat me, a microgram at a time, not much longer and they'll have me stripped to the bone - writers retreat!
21st August 2007
Charlotte Square Gardens. A green square turned to mush. Wooden walk ways describe parameters, offering temporary floors to temporary bookshops, reading rooms and cafes. Every step is like being ocean bound, set off for foreign territory - clunk, sway, whoosh, sway, clunk- all aboard who are going aboard. The sky remains black, warns of stormy weather ahead.
Been travelling for days without food, time to stop at port, fill up on provisions. The cafe, overpriced of course - rip off sandwiches, the leftovers, toxic combinations, no sentient being would eat. The place is busy, the make-shift book shelves, cafe tables, societal claustrophobia laps, deep waves. So I risk outside. I eat, quickly, feeling myself sink into browning grass with each tasteless mouthful. Olives, tomatoes, cheese, ham, whatever else it is that’s in there - it all goes the same way.
I wander. Portacabin toilets, with that glorious festival smell. Hold your nose. Do your business. And move on. Move on. Godspeed to the courageous.
Guest of honour, on a lonely corner - loitering. Shoulder length hair, dark; fitted jacket, black; dress, cream coloured, knee length; legs, bare, nice; shoes, brown heels. At a guess a little older than me, but with a sharp attractiveness. An organiser arrives, offers a life line dear author. She smiles wanly, unconvinced. Wraps her hair back, left hand, fold behind right ear, more smiling and remember the polite chatter.
The site has an abandoned air, a curious silence informs this festival hub. People involved - children line up to get books signed, members of staff, book sellers. I look at the time. Again. The old American woman asks if I am sitting at the front of the queue or the end. I shrug, I don't know, I just sat down, and I suspect I'm not even going to the same event. I suggest she finds a chair and see what happens. But a glance suggests there aren't many chairs, so I give her mine, and wander closer to the venue. Joining the other loiterers, copies of MR.Y stick out, here and there. Listening to the laughter as a male author regales his audience in a nearby venue. Flick at midgies, who eat me, a microgram at a time, not much longer and they'll have me stripped to the bone - writers retreat!
Labels: book, edinburgh, festival, grass, midgies, square
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