Wednesday, 16 November 2016
Thursday, 3 November 2016
I'm in a Turkish restaurant, the panther has gone in search of tobacco and I'm listening to a couple who are on a date. A white man with cane rowed hair and a black woman wearing a long straight hair wig. He is telling her about Samson and Delilah, particularly about how his strength was in his hair. And using it to illustrate why he didn't want to have his hair cut in order to hold down a regular job. She giggled and said he was so funny. He said he'd like to see her hair one day.
Posted by Harriet (the fshlady) at 8:00 pm
Tuesday, 1 November 2016
Discussion over the coffee machine today about people thinking they could vote in the American elections - over-coverage on the British news about it I guess, making them think it's actually one of our elections. We don't hear anything about the other two candidates though, only the top two horse race. And lots and lots of coverage about disgruntled voters feeling uninspired by either of them. Suddenly remembered back to when Obama won his first term. It sent a shockwave round the globe, rippling of joy and amazement. His great oration, the hope, his youth, and his colour - made him wipe the board with the old style of politician who standing next to him came across as staid, fuddy duddy, stuffed shirts without a word to say to the people. We have subsequently voted in younger, in some cases trendier politicians also. So the candidates in this election seem old school, like we are backing away from the great hope that was the first black American president. The world felt like it had changed. But now it's stuffing the change back in the box.
Posted by Harriet (the fshlady) at 7:20 pm
There is a carriage full of workers on their way - sweatshirted roadies, suited businessmen, suited salesman, shirt and jeans combo record shop assistants - all engaged in some small screen activity, listening to music and occasionally reading the paper. Then there is a man sitting with his legs wide, green puffa and white cable-knit jumper eating custard from a polystyrene pot. He's enjoying it, paying no attention to anyone else. Each spoonful held aloft to his lips, as he blows on it with his wide puckered mouth, before slurping it back and digging in again. Finished by Finsbury Park, he packs up the empty pot, wipes his mouth with a grey patch of kitchen towel, wraps it all up in a blue local-shop plastic bag and puts it in his bag. Sitting back he blends back into the throng of workers.
Posted by Harriet (the fshlady) at 9:29 am