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Nov. 14th, 2004 02:06 pmThey paid for First Class, and by my left ear was a recurrent swish of tights and polyester uniform skirts as the stewardesses plied the assembled suits with complimentary teas and coffees. Last time I was up that way, myself and a colleague were showered with ginger biscuits, but on this occasion only shortbread was to be had.
They were from the North-East, the catering staff, travelling back towards home. Though young, their manner was maternal, "Ahl finished are we now? I'll just clear away then for you." I was at the end of the carriage, and the conversations they held between themselves would start and finish as they left or entered through the sliding door, "Pam, I cannat get my thing back in..." "...I've told you before, pet, but you will not listen."
The countryside was flat, and the train moved at an optimistic pace. I read several chapters of Kazuo Ishiguro's 'An Artist of the Floating World' and was resentful when I reached my destination and had to put the book away. I would have travelled to Edinburgh, and back, just sitting reading, harming no-one, if I could.
Returning, the train consisted of Eurostar carriages. It made distinctive noises that reminded me of dragging through the Kent countryside after another pointless trip to Brussels. When they first built the tunnel they had been going to run services through from the North, but in they end they couldn't be bothered. So now there are trains left over, and they get used for domestic purposes. Always terminating at Kings Cross, short of the promised Continent beyond. There's a depot between Manchester and Stockport, the facade of which used to proudly and falsely announce that 'L'Eurostar habite ici'. It never did, I wonder if the sign is still there?
I don't have a panel today, they're all lost somewhere in the manifold folders of my laptop. But my source CD also has many pictures of young women on beaches (I suppose he felt he had to fill the spare 100mb on the disc with something - I would have preferred sound files from his Free Jazz collection). The concept troubles me and seems, for the purpose the images were collected, both contradictory in objective and impolite in the acquisition. And in any case, it's as uninterior a location as one can imagine, that point between the land and sea. However I've few qualms over interpretive recycling.
They were from the North-East, the catering staff, travelling back towards home. Though young, their manner was maternal, "Ahl finished are we now? I'll just clear away then for you." I was at the end of the carriage, and the conversations they held between themselves would start and finish as they left or entered through the sliding door, "Pam, I cannat get my thing back in..." "...I've told you before, pet, but you will not listen."
The countryside was flat, and the train moved at an optimistic pace. I read several chapters of Kazuo Ishiguro's 'An Artist of the Floating World' and was resentful when I reached my destination and had to put the book away. I would have travelled to Edinburgh, and back, just sitting reading, harming no-one, if I could.
Returning, the train consisted of Eurostar carriages. It made distinctive noises that reminded me of dragging through the Kent countryside after another pointless trip to Brussels. When they first built the tunnel they had been going to run services through from the North, but in they end they couldn't be bothered. So now there are trains left over, and they get used for domestic purposes. Always terminating at Kings Cross, short of the promised Continent beyond. There's a depot between Manchester and Stockport, the facade of which used to proudly and falsely announce that 'L'Eurostar habite ici'. It never did, I wonder if the sign is still there?
I don't have a panel today, they're all lost somewhere in the manifold folders of my laptop. But my source CD also has many pictures of young women on beaches (I suppose he felt he had to fill the spare 100mb on the disc with something - I would have preferred sound files from his Free Jazz collection). The concept troubles me and seems, for the purpose the images were collected, both contradictory in objective and impolite in the acquisition. And in any case, it's as uninterior a location as one can imagine, that point between the land and sea. However I've few qualms over interpretive recycling.
