What were you looking for?

The hall was crowded with white-shirted, neck-tied, black-suited men talking to round-shouldered, thick-legged women in tight dresses and stiletto heels. The place had become a potpourri of high-pitched hysterical screams, large glasses of Guinness and swift looks at clefts and crotches.

And then you walked in. Crooked and crippled, wearing an anorak and a pair of jeans, you waded seamlessly into the midst of the black swamp of Christmas party goers and emerged unscathed on the other bank.

the passing of time

- Would you like a few samples of cream?, she asked as she shoved the mascara I had just bought into a bag.

- Why not?, I replied.

So she opened a drawer and chose a few tubes for me, which she threw in with the mascara, and then handed me the paper bag over the counter.

- Good day Madame, she smiled.

When I got home, I poured the contents of the bag onto the kitchen table: six tubes of anti-wrinkle cream.

pfffft pfffft pfffft

"Discontinuous Gas Exchange in Insects"

Annual review of entomology, 1996.

before he ate, in Dublin

He long lanky-legged into the pub, wearing a pair of trousers too short and a coat too small which revealed hands so large that each could have cradled a newborn in their palm. The lifeless white of his face clashed with the darkness of his clothes as he settled his long body in the far corner of the dimly-lit pub and ordered a bowl of soup.

Then something must have chilled him. A thought perhaps.

So he took a black woollen hat out of his pocket and smoothed it onto his head with his spider fingers. He sat, very straight, with the palm of his hands on the table, waiting for his soup. When it arrived, he produced a small book, opened it and - with both hands holding it - he muttered words that he found inside it. When he had finished, he closed it and did the sign of the cross.

He was wearing red socks.

were it not for the weather

Our paths cross almost every day. Somewhere between where we have come from and where we are going. I know what we are going to talk about. We have talked about it for almost a decade now. You wouldn't go past anyone without stopping to talk about it. And it's just as well it's there because I don't know what we would have to say to one another otherwise.

You come up to me with your head bowed, your hands behind your back and the brittle gait of a man who is becoming old. Your mouth opens slightly and I can see the tip of your tongue moistening your lips with anticipated delight as you approach. Once you have reached the same bit of space as me, you pause, grin and then you look up at the sky, shake your head, and say:

"It won't rain today."

what's best

You had drawn a heart with your red nail varnish on the mirror outside the kitchen. So I put an arrow through it.

the children's floor

Huge bright red, orange and yellow poppies lined the corridor. Two nurses were playing a ball game with a boy sitting in a wheelchair, his head shaved on one side and the look in his eye far away. Little heads were resting against pillows in every ward. Some with hair. Others with none. A father was making a call on his mobile, seated at the foot of his daughter's bed. A mother was cradling the side of her son's face in the palm of her hand.

And life just keeps rolling on outside. There's nothing else it can really do.

it only comes once

You sit every day on a polystyrene box blowing despair into a harmonica. You are not old. You are not handicapped. You're a gypsy. You spend every single day sitting at the entrance of an underground car park waiting for a few coins to fall at your feet. Winter, Spring, Summer and Winter, we greet each other when I walk past your pitch. You stop playing. You lower your head and smile softly to me. Then continue to blow the tunes only you can play. I raise my hand and smile back to you. And each time I do, I wonder whether this is what you really want out of life.

has no one told her that it won't last?

Large-brimmed hat, short tight skirt, stiletto heels. She was elegant, refined, had taste. With her head held high and an expression of feigned detachment, self-possession and total indifference on her face, she glided across the second floor of an underground car park as though she was Yves Saint Laurent's top model and the place was a renowned Parisian catwalk.

Cornavin train station

Pink pvc hat
Green coat
Flowery dress
Fishnet stockings
Gold boots

Cool.

reading committee (I)

Reader A: "I love it!"
Reader B: "Great!"
Reader C: "Couldn't stop reading it!"
Reader D: "Love it!"
Reader E: "I love it!"
Reader F: "I don't."


Dear sender of manuscript,

Many thanks for sending us your work.
It was submitted to our reading committee and every member has examined it very closely. Unfortunately, despite its many qualities, we have decided not to publish it.
We thank you for your trust and wish you success in your writing.

Regards,
Readers of the manuscript.

reading committee (II)

Reader A: "No good."
Reader B: "Nope."
Reader C: "No."
Reader D: "Couldn't finish it."
Reader E: "No."
Reader F: "It's not that bad..."


Dear sender of manuscript,

Many thanks for sending us your work.
It was submitted to our reading committee and every member has examined it very closely. Unfortunately, despite its many qualities, we have decided not to publish it.
We thank you for your trust and wish you success in your writing.

Regards,
Readers of the manuscript.

what had happened between them?

I saw you walk across the bridge in a long coat and a scarf wrapped around your head. A cold northern wind was blowing, flinging your fringe into a wild tango. You decided to stop in a café. For a little warmth. You turned the glass door handle with your gloved hand and opened it. And you stood there. As though time had just frozen. There was a man sitting opposite the entrance with his back to you, talking to two women. They could see you. He couldn't. You didn't move. You were sifting and sorting your thoughts with your hand on the door handle still and the bitter bite of winter blowing in. An elderly woman turned her head to see where the cold was coming from. You saw her. And retreated. The time was not right. So you closed the door again and walked back from where you had come. In your long coat and your scarf wrapped around your head.

Zurich Hauptbahnhof

He had chosen a table in a corner of the Brasserie Fédérale, far from looks he didn't need. The only stare he was getting was from Niki de St Phalle's nana who was peering in from where she was suspended. But they knew each other well.

He ordered a Guiness. A large one. The larger it was, the longer he could stay. There wasn't much else he had to do. The larger it was, the longer he could talk to it too. Every day he spoke to the beer glass. Hissing abuse. Pausing. Making peace. Pausing. Shaking his finger. Sipping his beer. Nodding in agreement. Biting his lower lip. Swearing that he will never let it happen again. Ever.

she moves forward nevertheless

When she thrusts a leg forward and her foot hits the ground, her knee turns to look at the other knee while her hip swings out sideways. Someone must be holding the strings. But they still don't know how to make her walk properly. When she takes a step, everything collapses from the waist down before she is hitched back into an upright position, ready for the next step.

what a lot of us do

We go by train, by bus, by car, on a bicycle, or on foot.

Every morning of the week
We go to the same place
At the same time
With the same kind of thoughts.

There is no time for change.
No time for dream.
No time for perspective.

Then we sit in front of a screen
Most of the time
In the same office
At the same desk
Every day.

And when evening comes, we do a lot of what we did to get there, only in the opposite direction.

waiting for the train

It was dark already in the town where colour had long been forgotten. The station had been deserted for years. And barbed wire now surrounded whatever life had been left inside. A small hut had been placed on the platform with a bench outside. A man was sitting on it smoking a cigarette. A woman in stiletto heels and a cheap fur coat, with shapeless legs wrapped in pink tights , was dancing to music only she could hear. A young girl was calling home on her mobile. And a man had turned his back on everything, his front pressed against a derelict wall, to relieve himself.

you can't put 'and' at the beginning of a sentence

Her mind was as narrow as the space between her legs.

giggle sigh ooh

The three of you were standing outside the hairdresser's. Hands waving, palms against your hearts, squeaking exclamations. A young bird had fallen off the roof and landed - as well as it could - on the pavement below. There you were, looking down at this little bird. With it looking up at you. Helpless. The four of you. You knew how to deal with hair but you didn't know how to cope with feathers.

Together we picked it up and put it into a small cardboard box. One of you took it to the vet down the road, and came back half an hour later to give everyone the news in small excited pants. It would be fine. Flying soon. You would call every day to see how things were.

A ripple of relief spread through the saloon. Thrilled scissors clipped a lighter clip. And three young men felt closer than ever.

still a wee girl

You had just bought a black evening dress to wear at your first big party. You tried it on with your long slim legs. And put on a pair of tights and high-heeled black shoes. All of a sudden you were ten years older. And beautiful. A young woman.

Ten minutes later, I saw you sitting texting still in your evening wear, with your legs wide apart and your shoulders round.

Lovely.

once in a lifetime

Whatever there is up there had sent down the colours of a rainbow and splashed soft red across the hills. It was very early morning on the train. You were all busy with other views. Reading books, absorbing newspapers, texting messages, working on PCs.

I saw it.

get a life

Someone had taken something that belonged to you. And because you don't know how to communicate, you led a child to the tribunal. You used the easy way out. You didn't need to get involved. It didn't take guts. You didn't need to understand. You chose the place and the way which allowed you and your frustrations to hide behind the judicial machine.

very important people

They had read, criticised, discussed and finally judged her text. They had taken her story apart. Unveiled all its secrets, dissected all its meanings, understood all its nuances.

There was no curiosity for the mind which had written it though. No interest in the author who had created it.

But they gave her a prize for it.
Drank some champagne in the name of it.
And had their photo taken for the sake of it.

perspective

You were walking down the street bent over double. Something just below your shoulders must have caved in and left you watching life one head lower than you had been used to. But you didn't seem to mind. It hadn't taken the mischief away from you. Or your smile. You couldn't lift your head anymore so you turned it sideways. The world was all the richer for you now because you had been given the opportunity to see it from a different angle.

Geneva is full of them

Your whole face had dropped under the pull of frustration. Eyes judgemental. Lips thin. Jaw heavy. Years of comfort had shrivelled your thoughts. Years of convenient indolence had twisted your fate. Nourished mediocrity. The lack of life was pouring out of you.

Silk scarf. Little black bag hanging off your frail wrist. Neat navy-blue shoes. Skin-coloured stockings. Expensive black leather gloves. You had everything outside. Inside, there was hardly anything left to see. And what remained was so crumpled and wrinkled that nothing could have evened out the creases.

Fabrice told me this story

When you were a little boy of ten, one day you felt the need for pocket money. You knew your mother or father wouldn't give you any. So you chose a dining-room chair, dragged it down the stairs, heaved it onto your little boy shoulders, and took it to the antique shop down the road. It was a beautiful piece of furniture and the man inside gave you exactly what you had hoped for. Twenty francs.

Your father gave you what you were half expecting too.

i wonder who you were

She bounced into the café. Short short hair. Black black skin. And a smile that made your heart melt. I smiled back. She came up to me, shook my hand and whispered into my ear "I've lost my voice." Then moved on to tell anyone else in the café who would tilt their head to lend her an ear too.

We left the café. So did she. Short hair, black skin, white smile. She caught up and squeezed her way between us. Giggling with mischief. Out loud she announced to us that she had to meet someone but didn't really want to go, and as she left to cross the road she wished us both 'Monsieur et Madame' a lovely evening.

on hold

He was waiting for the traffic to stop so that he could cross the road. Holding the end of a slim cigar between his forefinger and thumb at the height of his chest. He kept it there because it had nowhere else to go. Nothing was moving. Nothing had moved for ages now. He was ready to wait for the length of eternity as he gazed absentmindedly at life on the other side. There was hardly any mind left to be present. Prescribed chemistry had taken over.

a man

He smiled and nodded, and nodded and smiled as the young woman sitting opposite him talked about many things he had no interest in whatsoever.

His interest lay between her thighs.

a woman

He was trying very hard to seduce her with his conversation. He was trying very hard to say something that would inspire her, catch her attention, stimulate a thought. But all she did was nod and smile, and smile and nod, as her eyes scanned the room looking for more male attention and her mind summed up the looks she got.

blind

He takes the same train every day. And travels in the last carriage. He needs to find a place where he can be seated on his own. Beside a window. He places his brown leather shoulder bag on the seat beside him and pulls out a green pen, a ruler and a book with a picture of Jesus on the cover. He reads one chapter, underlining every sentence as he agrees with the underlying message. He puts the book back into his bag from where he extracts a rubber, a pencil and a board on which are clipped a few sheets of sudoku. He rubs and pencils the rest of the journey, secure in another form of logic.

If you knew how to underline the view, or sort out the passengers, you might see a little more.

home

You crossed the road dragging a trolley loaded with black bin bags. The pile was taller than you were. It wasn't easy to keep the whole lot balanced as you hauled all you owned off one pavement onto another. A bag fell off. You smiled a toothless smile and bent down to pick it up. You could feel the eyes of the drivers clutching their wheel watching you, following your every move, as they waited for the light to turn green. You just hoped that it would stay red long enough for you and your dignity to make it to the other side.

fake

Her little girl had just fallen off her tricycle. She rushed to her laughing out loud as people looked on. She let out sharp, nervous, forced peals of laughter whose every note shrieked 'Look at me! What a great mother I am, having so much fun with my child!'.

bore

She sat in a corner of the room perched on the top of a tall stool, her handbag on her lap and her hands politely crossed on top. She didn't say a word all evening.
She was new and felt vulnerable.
And was vulnerable.
And needed to be vulnerable.
And knew how to show vulnerable.
So she sat there wrapped in a coat of affected insecurity and a smile which said 'please look at me and see how shy and unsure I am and if you come and talk to me you will understand that I can only answer your questions very briefly and in a whisper and take no interest in you because if I did the little lonely girl expression on my face would vanish and you wouldn't feel sorry for me anymore'.

this happened to you one morning in 1933

It was already dawn when the front door opened. And their father came in. Weary. Exhausted. Pale. He closed the door. Softly. Took his coat off and laid it over the chair. He prepared breakfast for the boys. A cup of hot cocoa and toast with butter. Or jam. Never both. Both was greedy. Wasteful. Selfish. Then he sat and waited for his sons to come downstairs. With their hair brushed, their faces washed, their long shorts and grey socks. Ready for breakfast. Ready for school.

The three brothers rushed noisily down the stairs and sat untidily around the table. Outside drizzled the usual northern wet. They noticed their father. Sitting. Gloomy. Worried. Too calm. So they stopped talking. They stopped laughing. Their morning romps scampered up the stairs as fast as they had come down.

The boys ate their buttered toast and drank their hot chocolate. In silence. Watching. Wondering. Waiting. Then their father lifted his head. Hands on his lap, eyes moist and a voice trained to hide its feelings, he told them that he had something to tell them. The three boys stopped chewing. The youngest let out a nervous giggle, and searched for his brothers’ approval. But they gave none. No one budged.

«You don’t have a mother any more», their father told them.

they're watching you

He was sitting in a crowded café with a woman, a little girl and a little boy. Most of the crowd had noticed him because he was a popular figure in town. He, however, was noticing no one and spending an inordinate amount of time and energy avoiding looks and attention from those close to him, by giving his own looks and stifling attention to the two children beside him.

It cannot be an easy task to be where he is, which is somewhere between the attention you feign neither to care for nor to notice, and the craving for it.

fourteen

"Where's my sweater?"
"I dont' know."
"You're always moving my stuff."
"You had it on you a few minutes ago."
"I can never find anything. Why do you tidy everything away? I'm always looking for everything. It's so tiring. And then you wonder why I'm late all the time. If you just left my stuff alone. Everything would go much faster." Pause... "It's under my duvet. I didn't put it there. Why did you make my bed?"

hard work

He kissed everyone goodbye but made a deliberate choice to shake her hand faking disinterest in an attempt to disguise his ill-ease in her presence behind a mask of studied indifference.
He was cool.
But so was she.

Downe syndrome

He was watching life rush past him, sitting on a bench on the edge of the street, with his arms crossed and one chromosome too many.

not getting in

The little boy has locked the door. The little girl has called him over and over again but he won't open it. So she's sitting, crouched on the floor with tears rolling down her cheeks, waiting for him to let her in so that they can go down to the sea shore to collect shells together.

But you won't. Will you?