Redeye
Is the Redeye very late or very early? I'm on a very late train. It's been a very long journey. Two hours from the destination still and it's 10pm already. The detritus of passengers who have gotten off already is mingled with that of those of us left aboard. We are a puffy eyed, crumpled, weary lot. I would really like to get off - my skin us dry and hot, my mouth fuzzy. I've been travelling for five hours so far - by the time I get there I could have flown across the Atlantic and watched three films. The man with the trolley is very nice but I don't want to put anything e-numbery and sugary in my mouth.
Tuesday, 24 May 2011
Strong Winds
Blustery winds of 70-80mph whipped around Dundee yesterday. Trees fell over. The bridge over the silvery silvery Tay was shut. Leaves litter the streets. And branches. Five cars were crushed by a fallen tree near the Law. Polytunnels crushed out of shape, their plastic torn off. It's always dramatic, Scottish weather!
Blustery winds of 70-80mph whipped around Dundee yesterday. Trees fell over. The bridge over the silvery silvery Tay was shut. Leaves litter the streets. And branches. Five cars were crushed by a fallen tree near the Law. Polytunnels crushed out of shape, their plastic torn off. It's always dramatic, Scottish weather!
Saturday, 21 May 2011
Journey
The train rushes past the landscape of the east coast - farmland, flat - then a chalk horse on a hill after York. Wooded patches of trees growing upwards competing with each other. Horses and foals, cows and calves, sheep and lambs - physical springtime. A tumbledown farmhouse in the middle of nowhere with out-buildings that would make ideal studios. I know we're not supposed to as Londoners but sometimes I long for a less urban-pace of life. And sometimes I think it might be a hankering for an isolated existence which leaves me free to do exactly as I choose.
The train rushes past the landscape of the east coast - farmland, flat - then a chalk horse on a hill after York. Wooded patches of trees growing upwards competing with each other. Horses and foals, cows and calves, sheep and lambs - physical springtime. A tumbledown farmhouse in the middle of nowhere with out-buildings that would make ideal studios. I know we're not supposed to as Londoners but sometimes I long for a less urban-pace of life. And sometimes I think it might be a hankering for an isolated existence which leaves me free to do exactly as I choose.
Tuesday, 17 May 2011
Random 41 year old thoughts
So it was my birthday last friday. I was 39 and 24 months old. Its not a significant number of years, so I celebrated in a low-key manner, which was nice. If I can't stand the numbers I don't need to draw attention to them I figure.
On the way to the local shop I saw a man in the key cutting shop. He was wearing a toupe. It was auburn against his grey and dark brown natural hair. The toupe must have been very old - it was balding from too much combing of the parting. Bald man in a bald wig. Time for an upgrade.
Sitting on the bus on the way home, a man behind me is talking on the phone. Hello! This is Rambo, can I speak to Moses? I'm getting clashes between American action heros with guns and pumped muscles and Charlton Heston as Moses parting the red sea.
Behind him some 14 year old school boys are talking about stuff they used to do when they were 11. Back in my day we didn't used to cheek the teacher so much. Back in their day - these are their days. Old before their time.
So it was my birthday last friday. I was 39 and 24 months old. Its not a significant number of years, so I celebrated in a low-key manner, which was nice. If I can't stand the numbers I don't need to draw attention to them I figure.
On the way to the local shop I saw a man in the key cutting shop. He was wearing a toupe. It was auburn against his grey and dark brown natural hair. The toupe must have been very old - it was balding from too much combing of the parting. Bald man in a bald wig. Time for an upgrade.
Sitting on the bus on the way home, a man behind me is talking on the phone. Hello! This is Rambo, can I speak to Moses? I'm getting clashes between American action heros with guns and pumped muscles and Charlton Heston as Moses parting the red sea.
Behind him some 14 year old school boys are talking about stuff they used to do when they were 11. Back in my day we didn't used to cheek the teacher so much. Back in their day - these are their days. Old before their time.
Wednesday, 11 May 2011
Post-Coital Journeys to Work
Waiting for the train she stands only as tall as his shoulder. She looks up into his face. He is talking to her. On the train they sit together, in the way that only couples do - bodies touching. He is spread out, she is tucked into him. They are sharing one set of headphones. He is playing tunes for her, do you know this?, he mime-sings along, what about this? Of course I know that, she mock-scolds. He grins. She looks up into his beaming face smiling through long eyelashes. The morning after the night before.
Waiting for the train she stands only as tall as his shoulder. She looks up into his face. He is talking to her. On the train they sit together, in the way that only couples do - bodies touching. He is spread out, she is tucked into him. They are sharing one set of headphones. He is playing tunes for her, do you know this?, he mime-sings along, what about this? Of course I know that, she mock-scolds. He grins. She looks up into his beaming face smiling through long eyelashes. The morning after the night before.
Sunday, 1 May 2011
Drunk
The bus lurches round a corner as it weaves it's way east away from the main road. It shakes life into a semi-comatose drunk man who shouts, "leme awwt", stands up, creeps his way to the stairs aided by the handrail carry a large carton of juice and a full bottle of rum. He gets to the top of the stairs as the bus pulls away from the bus stop. His tenuous grip (one little finger) doesn't hold and he falls face first down flinging the rum onto the top deck where it smashes filling the floor with sweet smelling alchol. "Leme awwt. Open the fucking doors". A child upstairs starts to cry, frightened by the commotion. The doors open, "I've left something upstairs," he's creeping back up. It smashed someone tells him. The bus pulls off again. "Open the doors leme off this fucking bus". And finally he is.
The bus lurches round a corner as it weaves it's way east away from the main road. It shakes life into a semi-comatose drunk man who shouts, "leme awwt", stands up, creeps his way to the stairs aided by the handrail carry a large carton of juice and a full bottle of rum. He gets to the top of the stairs as the bus pulls away from the bus stop. His tenuous grip (one little finger) doesn't hold and he falls face first down flinging the rum onto the top deck where it smashes filling the floor with sweet smelling alchol. "Leme awwt. Open the fucking doors". A child upstairs starts to cry, frightened by the commotion. The doors open, "I've left something upstairs," he's creeping back up. It smashed someone tells him. The bus pulls off again. "Open the doors leme off this fucking bus". And finally he is.
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