Recent japes.
Since getting home to London I've been having a mixed time. The first week was marked by my restlessness and struggle to adjust back into family living. I locked myself away for most of the week, sustained by episodes of House and lots of books. This week I've been out and about a lot more; a gig, picnics in the sunshine, cocktails by the river, dinner at an old friend's house. I fill the hours. I've recently read;
Trash by Dorothy Allison.
Dancer by Colum McCann
A Complicated Kindness by Miriam Toews
Slaughterhouse 5 by Kurt Vonnegut
Regeneration by Pat Barker (highly recommended)
Birdsong by Sebastian Faulks
White Teeth by Zadie Smith
Love, etc by Julian Barnes (well, this will actually be finished tonight).
The Yeti fans among you may be interested to know that I was on the tube the other day and Andy was on my train, wearing a hilarious pair of very large plastic-framed glasses. They looked like something prescribed by the NHS in the 1980s. He was on the same platform as me, and sort of wandered past, prompting me to wander past him in turn, to double-check my hunch. He then sat opposite and a little way along from me on the train, confirming my suspicions. I didn't say anything, as I can't say Charlotte and I have ever built up the same rapport with Andy as with say, Harmony, or John.
Walking to the bus stop today elicited memories of running for the bus, on dark December mornings. You get good at hearing buses in the distance, if you're a London school-child. The slightest hint of that soft hum and build of an accelerating bus engine, or a glimpse of the red smudge amidst the traffic on the horizon is enough to set you off. Battling the inevitably heavy shoulder bag and cumbersome school-shoes, scores of us would freeze for a split-second, tuning into those tentative signals of the vehicle's approach. Then a sudden surge and swell as we hurl ourselves towards the bus stop, fumbling desperately for bus passes or ten pence coins as we run, for these were the days before Oyster cards. Some are superstitious, avoiding manhole covers that lie in batches of three, slaloming around the leg posts of road signs and never stepping on the cracks. Others, usually including myself, forsake the pavement and run alongside the curb, half in the gutter, risking being pinned against parked cars by oncoming traffic. At least this way we can flail our arms madly and demand that the oncoming bus slows and stops at the bus stop. You play up the desperation if the bus has pulled off already but is waiting at traffic lights, you pound on the double doors and look pleadingly at the driver, hoping he'll be a decent one who'll let you on. I caught the E2 bus for 7 years, and one older driver would often just wave me on without checking for my pass or a fare. On other occasions there would be an uptight demon of a woman, who would shout abuse at noisy kids and council-estate mums with prams, struggling to get down the narrow bus aisles. Most often, the bus drivers were faceless men, waving us past with a grunt, resentful of being scheduled to drive during the school runs. Once I sat on a stationary bus for half an hour, as the white-haired Greek bus driver halted the vehicle in the middle of the road that led down from the bus station to the main drag, refusing to move. He was protesting his wages, or his hours, or his impending dismissal. I don't know, I didn't care. I sat and stared down at the canal, recalling the incident from several years ago when they pulled a body out of the water.
Trash by Dorothy Allison.
Dancer by Colum McCann
A Complicated Kindness by Miriam Toews
Slaughterhouse 5 by Kurt Vonnegut
Regeneration by Pat Barker (highly recommended)
Birdsong by Sebastian Faulks
White Teeth by Zadie Smith
Love, etc by Julian Barnes (well, this will actually be finished tonight).
The Yeti fans among you may be interested to know that I was on the tube the other day and Andy was on my train, wearing a hilarious pair of very large plastic-framed glasses. They looked like something prescribed by the NHS in the 1980s. He was on the same platform as me, and sort of wandered past, prompting me to wander past him in turn, to double-check my hunch. He then sat opposite and a little way along from me on the train, confirming my suspicions. I didn't say anything, as I can't say Charlotte and I have ever built up the same rapport with Andy as with say, Harmony, or John.
Walking to the bus stop today elicited memories of running for the bus, on dark December mornings. You get good at hearing buses in the distance, if you're a London school-child. The slightest hint of that soft hum and build of an accelerating bus engine, or a glimpse of the red smudge amidst the traffic on the horizon is enough to set you off. Battling the inevitably heavy shoulder bag and cumbersome school-shoes, scores of us would freeze for a split-second, tuning into those tentative signals of the vehicle's approach. Then a sudden surge and swell as we hurl ourselves towards the bus stop, fumbling desperately for bus passes or ten pence coins as we run, for these were the days before Oyster cards. Some are superstitious, avoiding manhole covers that lie in batches of three, slaloming around the leg posts of road signs and never stepping on the cracks. Others, usually including myself, forsake the pavement and run alongside the curb, half in the gutter, risking being pinned against parked cars by oncoming traffic. At least this way we can flail our arms madly and demand that the oncoming bus slows and stops at the bus stop. You play up the desperation if the bus has pulled off already but is waiting at traffic lights, you pound on the double doors and look pleadingly at the driver, hoping he'll be a decent one who'll let you on. I caught the E2 bus for 7 years, and one older driver would often just wave me on without checking for my pass or a fare. On other occasions there would be an uptight demon of a woman, who would shout abuse at noisy kids and council-estate mums with prams, struggling to get down the narrow bus aisles. Most often, the bus drivers were faceless men, waving us past with a grunt, resentful of being scheduled to drive during the school runs. Once I sat on a stationary bus for half an hour, as the white-haired Greek bus driver halted the vehicle in the middle of the road that led down from the bus station to the main drag, refusing to move. He was protesting his wages, or his hours, or his impending dismissal. I don't know, I didn't care. I sat and stared down at the canal, recalling the incident from several years ago when they pulled a body out of the water.