08.11.07

At the University of S they brush away the leaves all day everyday. Asphalt stares me in the face. I turn round to find people are smiling.

My empathy is for the leaves.

07.11.07

As he leafed through his German phrasebook, he was as ever blissfully confused about boundaries. But what's the difference between the medical section and the erotic?

Beissen Sie hier daruf.
Bite down on this.

Bewegen Sie sich nicht.
Don't move.

Bitte den Mund weit offnen.
Open wide.

Das tut vielleicht ein bisschen weh.
This might hurt a little.

Das tut gar nicht weh.
This won't hurt a bit.

Kommen Sie zuruck, ich bin noch nicht fertig!
Come back, I haven't finished!

02.11.12

If Godot ever materialised, this is how he'd look. A tall, gaunt, ashen-faced man with the wispiest hair and a 19th century Scouse accent - metaphysics hidden behind workaday tones.

So tall that when sat down his body folds elegantly into place as he drags on an old fag end, which even at this time of the morning constitutes probably the fifth or so of its kind.

I 'ate fruit.

I hear him before I see him (although I know he'll be there, sorting out the produce). This morning his cough rattles, the sputum of which he attempts to force up through short but loud choking noises. It works, for he spits the offending matter out right by his side as he continues to enjoy his tobacco breakfast.

Time immaterial

ARE YOU OK?

--

HAVE YOU BEEN BEATEN UP? DO YOU NEED US TO CALL AN AMBULANCE?

-- - -- --

DO YOU WANT US TO CALL THE POLICE?

I don't think he's been beaten; he could've fallen.

HELLO? DO YOU WANT US TO CALL THE POLICE?
---
OK. WE'LL LEAVE YOU TO IT. GOODBYE.

October, sometime

"Yeah but lust turns into love after a while, doesn't it?"

01.11.07

He says that she must act the bitch to get what she wants. She listens to him, not really picking him up on this, and they both walk off, years of misspent youth and grand disillusions unnecessarily ahead of them.

01.11.07

I move out of the way for her to progress down the carriage. Not a word of thank you or other recognition of my good manners, which were clearly mispent. I want to pour her shitty little latte over her fucking head.

It is not a good start to the day.

31.10.07

A handsome young construction worker walks in the newsagent to buy some cigarettes. I hear him mutter the name of a brand - there was something incongruously effeminate about it. Does he like a particular scent about him when he smokes? I know it wasn't Benson and Hedges. In the time it takes for his order to be placed and the transaction to be fulfilled, he empties at short, sharp draughts a can of Lucozade. On his way out he places the freshly emptied can on a shelf in a peculiar manner of disposal that I observe as I take a second glance at his handsome form. He sees me see him do it, the can falters, falls to the floor, and with his plan foiled, he leaves with can in hand, obviously against his original wishes and embarrassed at being so caught.