thoughts over breakfast

We wondered what it would be like to fly. Nice. No doubt. Although I would miss walking. And birds can't do that. Or they can. But not very fast.

And then we wondered how it would be like to fly to work. And you would see all these bankers flying towards Geneva, creating human jams in the middle of the sky, as they flap their hands frantically so as not to lose height.

There is one thing they wouldn't be able to do anymore, and that is open their pcs on their laps on their way to work.

And what of accidents? Imagine two bankers colliding above. And freefalling to the ground below. Where would they land? How would they land?

All we have to deal with at the moment are birds' droppings, rain, snow and the odd hail storm. But imagine a banker, or two, falling out of the sky. Unannounced.

what i like about spiders

is that you can fling them out of the window and they will come to no harm - whatever the height.

You cannot do the same with your cat. For example. Or any other member of the family.

a thought or two

I was waiting for the lights to turn green at a huge crossroads in the centre of Geneva. When it happened. It was as though a huge brush had swooped down to paint the streets the way they had been many many years before. All I could see was countryside. Trees. Fields. A horizon. A path perhaps. With a farmer strolling down it. Two women talking to each other. Children playing close by. And, in the distance, a carriage going in the opposite direction.

There was a time when there were no streets here. No cement. No concrete. No towering grey buildings. There were no cars. No traffic lights. No loud exhaust pipes spewing out their fumes. No important men in black suits, black shoes, black coats and black satchels standing impatiently on the edge of the kerb waiting for the traffic to stop, as they fire messages of power down their black cell phones.

In those days, surely there were more smiles. More heartfelt greetings. And was there not less rush? Less frustration? More colour? More patience? More wonder? More curiosity? More joy? More time?

i saw this written on its side

"The Art of Moving"

It's just a car.

what else was there to do?

Not young anymore. Not old either. Tall. Good-looking. White hair. Jeans and a thick woollen sweater. Wandering down the street. Far away in your thoughts. Thoughts which would not loosen their grip on your mind. Questions that clawed at your understanding. To which there seemed to be no answer. So you shrugged your shoulders.

the gulf

Sitting in a caddie. Pink clad legs hanging over the edge. Tongue sticking out in deep concentration, the little girl was scribbling something on a pad. All of a sudden, she screamed with delight and proudly handed what she had just written to her mother. "Oh, thank you... that's lovely...", said Mum. But she didn't buy anything on the list her daughter had carefully elaborated.

it's the last time

He was standing at the shop entrance, begging. He came up to me, muttering something I couldn't understand. I shook my head. For whatever it was. And entered the shop. But they know how to put the guilt in you. So on my way out, I asked him if he was hungry. He nodded. "Would he like a sandwich?" Yes, he answered. And a coke. I told him that he could ask someone else for a coke. I would get him a sandwich. Which I did. I gave it to him. He took it almost grudgingly. Without a smile. Without a thank you. Not a sign of gratitude. Just a whimper asking me why I hadn't got him a coke.

one aim

Three boys yo-ing their way down the street.

Caps on backwards.

Jeans between their knees.

Voices as deep as they can make them.

As I passed them I heard one ask eagerly:

"And did she kiss you?"