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It was one of those awkwardly wet days; in trying to jam something into one of my pockets I had managed to cut my thumb. My hands are soft, you understand: when the Revolution comes it will be evident by my silky palms that I am not a Worker.

My thumb was bleeding, and I was sitting on the tram on the way to the bus for the airport, and I was staunching the flow, or rather dabbing away the single droplet, with a bit of paper napkin from Pressbyrån. The lady sitting opposite me reached into her bag, and once she had switched to English, offered me a sticking plaster. She had Elastoplasts in her bag! Fancy that. Praktisk.

So I thanked her and put the plaster on, and thanked her again, and in response, what with limited language, etc., she gave me that internationally recognised ‘thumbs up’ sign. And so I made the same gesture in response with my freshly plastered thumb.

At which she giggled a bit, then a bit more, pretty soon she was giggling quite a lot. And then she got it under control for a moment, but from there until Drottningtorget all I had to do was catch her eye to set her off again.

She might have been laughing at the visual joke of the plaster on my thumb, or straight up laughing at me, but I'm past caring about that. It was worth cutting my thumb for it.
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Perhaps this is a characteristic of buying books in London, or perhaps a characteristic of me, but the moment of exchange - the money for the book across the counter - has rarely been accompanied by discussion.

I remember the last anomaly before recent times: I was purchasing a large format tome explaining how to use 'Windows ME', and Terry Eagleton's "Literary Theory: An Introduction''. I agreed with the employee that if neither volume were helpful on their stated subjects, I should simply swap them around: the literary critic helping me work my pc, the low-tech consumer manual offering insights into theme and structure in the written narrative. It was a rewarding interaction.

Since then, many years had passed until the next exchange, but from a certain point, I don't know why, they come thick and fast - the most recent last week.

First. The cashier lights up at sight of the cover, and asks me if I've read the author's other novel - she had and considered it excellent. I say I haven't, but that I'd seen one of her films. Now we both look confused, because I didn't think she had published a novel in addition to that now before us, and the cashier appears puzzled at suggestion the writer made movies. With a queue behind me we leave it at that, but it's an unsatisfying moment, I expect for both of us.

Second. The cashier clouds over, in fact becomes stormy, at the sight of the cover, and mutters more to the counter than to me: 'Hateful book'. I feel I should respond, if only to acknowledge her remark: I ask 'What didn't you like about it?' To which she spits in response: 'I haven't read it!'. As if I had accused her of the same sin I am clearly about to commit. As she gives me my change she has the irritably breathless demeanour of someone who has just needlessly run up a long flight of stairs, and is now in the presence of the inventor of steps. So I did not seek to prolong the encounter.

Third. The cashier beams at the four books, then at me, and exclaims: 'All women writers!'. She does so in a tone normally accompanied by delivery of a pat on the head, or a biscuit, or both. I consider expressing mild surprise at this commonality in my purchases, but conclude I cannot do so convincingly. Instead I seek refuge in my blandest smile. Esprit d'escalier supplies me with me with variously (in)appropriate responses all the way home, and intermittently since.

I should be more positive about this outbreak of lively point-of-sale discourse. After all, what are books but communication itself? A stimulating, positive discussion could have followed each of the above exchanges. But it didn't, and if it carries on like this I will end up reduced to mail order.
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When I was growing up, all the rainbows were singular. Just one multi-coloured arc at a time. I was about twenty when I saw my first double rainbow; it was somewhere in North Derbyshire.

Now they're all doubles. Every last one. It's just so crass, so unnecessary.

Do you remember a time before double rainbows

Just to be

Apr. 12th, 2017 07:48 pm
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...on the safe side
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Kick you feet
Sugar Loaf Walk, E2

.

Sep. 26th, 2016 12:32 am
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He said: when they give things out, I always get the knackered one. He went on to describe being part of group, or a team, given inflatable objects, and his kept deflating. Then he spoke of when young, being sat astride an unwell pony.

This was what he would admit to publicly. He did not go onto say that this tendency which he had noticed had a reliability, a consistency, that convinced him of an unchangeable fate. Either he could see the flawed object coming towards him, its preordained position in the pile exactly matching his place in a queue, or an apparently serviceable item would prove to fail as soon as it was allocated to him.

Once, scuba-diving, he had nearly drowned.

Imagine conscription, war, so much kit to be issued with. The grenade with the faulty timer, the gun with the impeded barrel, the parachute...

.

Sep. 26th, 2016 12:28 am
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Owing to advances in technology and its applications, practices are developing here which are established traditions elsewhere. The arbitrary matchmaking effect inherent in gathering at licensed premises is now being supplanted by methods more contrived, but no less random.

The way we did it before: presence preceded possibility; now it's vice versa. People have to go by pictures to begin with, which I understand are not always reliable.

"Are you Scott? I'm ____"*

I was impressed by her good manners: when I told her I was not Scott, she had the politeness not to look relieved. She went away and took a seat from which she could glance from her phone to the door and back.

I was waiting for a friend. He was delayed, but I had my drink and my book and I was happy.

I wondered what Scott was like: how closely might he resemble me, what was his outlook on life. Punctuality not his strong point perhaps.

"You're not Scott? 'Cause if you are... it's not funny."

She was back again.

I carry an identity card bearing my name and likeness. The card also displays a logo: an improbably elongated lion, on its hind legs and wearing a crown, and a unicorn, also rampant, and unselfconscious of its mythical status. Despite this lurid cartoon, people usually find the card plausible.**

If ___ was convinced too, when I showed it to her, then only just: her gaze flicked sceptically between the face on the front of my card and the face on the front of my head.

She also took a good look at the book*** on the counter in front of me, as if in question: would Scott read this? I was tempted to recommend it to her, since she was gawping at the thing, and maybe to add some value to this otherwise disappointing encounter. But on reflection, best not to prolong the exchange. I was not Scott, nor near offer.

My friend arrived before she left. I told him what had passed between us. He wanted to stay. He wanted to see Scott too.

*A name a bit more distinctive than 'Scott'.
**Like our Foreign Secretary (joke).
***An anthology of Alice Munro short stories; I thought the maple leaf design on the cover was a bit much, but they really were quite Canadian.
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The lit up, steamed up windows of an 87 coming the other way up the Strand; odd to see that on a dry evening. Middle aged man thinks so to, says to his wife, in a tone almost indignant:

  Look at that. Are they boiling potatoes on that bus?

====

A couple discuss where they will eat tonight. It is taking a long time; we are on a 3, now passing the Crimea monument, they've been at it since Lambeth Bridge. His suggestions are lengthy, featuring favourite dishes at each establishment, the wine list, the disposition of the staff, the decor, the acoustics. Her contributions are staccato and terse, consisting primarily of the restaurant's name, cuisine and location.

There seems to be no point of agreement between them. Neither engages with the other's recommendations. They must be in a state of mutual oblivion, for it's not until the queue at Shoryu slides past the windows that he says:

  Are you, ... I thought you were just, ... you're getting all this from your phone, ... from a, an app!
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PFERDE STATT BETON!
Frankfurt am Main
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When I was growing up it seemed there was more violence than today. Playground violence, street violence, pub violence, football violence. A casual nihilism, given expression through recreational violence, violence without fury.

More vandalism too. Mounds of diamonds at the bus shelters, the phone boxes. Windows barred or strengthened with wire mesh in the glass.

It was like living in the home of a toddler: those things that were not already broken had been proofed against breakage.

Much less now. There are theories. Lead-free petrol. That and the phones to keep the fingers busy.

The telly was on in the pub earlier: tear gas clouds and the age-old ballet of running and scrapping and chucking cafe chairs about.

      "We're all voting Out, we're all voting Out - Fuck off Europe: we're all voting Out!"

An old bloke down the bar was telling war stories - from when he went all over The Continent with Spurs. His eyes shining. "...when you seen em all running... Stanley knives an all... then you was back at work on Monday..."

Maybe it's just an echo. Reasserting a constant, from my childhood into my teens into my twenties. Neither comforting nor reassuring, but as familiar as a school corridor revisited.
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A tram in ---.

They're knackered old things: narrow, plastic seats, you could hose them clean from the inside out.

A wedding party gets on, full rig, she in the dress, he in the suit and everyone else got up too. All joy and noise, and here in --- where no-one cracks a smile.

They look so young and ugly and beautiful and vulnerable and brave, the two of them. The tram packed with them and the rest; empty and cold and sad before.
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Unexpected, sudden, day off. I went to West Ham and then I went further.

At this point I should apologise for treading all over [livejournal.com profile] killsurfcity's parish without prior.

I got off at the end of the line. I bought an Aero in a newsagent's.

It was quiet; there were people and dogs, but they were silent.

There was a snack van, and its generator began chopping off the quiet. Then an emergency telephone started ringing - all by itself: yellow on a post and no-one to answer it but me. No, I didn't.

At first I could not make out the fort towers at Shivering Sands. Then I could. Not there... not there... There, right there!

Two low dark vehicles were moving fast across the sand, at once ridiculous and sinister, like something out of Quatermass. As I got my camera onto the front runner the passenger turned my way, head bulged out by ear defenders, properly eyeballing me. Moody.

I'm told they were looking at shell fragments, like you do on a beach.

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Chancery Lane, ascending from the platforms.
Observing the conditions of carriage, a woman hefts up her fairly large dog into her arms and steps onto the moving staircase. The hound appears at first surprised - the roll of its eyes seems to indicate alarm - this is evidently not an everyday occurrence. But then it identifies a meaning in the action: it must be an expression of affection, so the beast reciprocates, enthusiastically licking its owner's face. This continues most of the way to the top; as I pass on the left, I hear the woman ask the beast in her arms: "Oh, you...Are we having this every time we get on escalators now?"

Conversing with someone I did not know very well in crowded, noisy premises.
How long it took, how many rounds in the exchange, for us to realise that while she had been talking of the actress, Eva Green, I was referring to the suburb, Hither Green.
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On a weekday midday intercity train to a northwestern city, a youngish couple are seated several rows ahead of us. The woman is next to the window, her legs across those of her adjacent companion. The high seat backs all but obscure the pair from my view, but the woman's feet and ankles are visible across the aisle. In dark tights, at this angle, they look like hooves.

In a rushhour cab through rain and tramworks of another northwestern city, as the vehicle arrives at the station music begins to play: the sentimental croon of 'The Road Is Long' by The Hollies. It's too loud to be the cabbie's mobile ringtone; it must be from speakers somewhere in the taxi itself, somehow triggered by arrival at the station. Feeling that there is a commercial intent concealed in that, and next time we're walking it, if I've any say in the matter.

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