Wednesday 21 January 2009

the man who never finishes his sentences (where i like to buy my rings)

"Yes, the colour goes very well with... You understand the shape of the ring... How you wear it. It all has to do with... A kind of aura... Venetian you understand... They know the art of glass... Because glass is... They polish it... You can feel the shape... Better than resin for instance because resin... You stop... Your fingers stop... you stop. You can't do otherwise when you're.... You see. And the colours too... The gold in there which is of the ....hmmm.... They are... They are the glass... They know what is feminine... hmmm... It's all in ... Yes."

the woman who can't stop saying sentences (where i like to buy my bracelets)

"They all want that colour my customers. And I tell my distributors that my clients want that colour. But it makes no difference; they send me 2 of this colour and 3 of that colour. Because, you understand, you can't choose. Well they do do favours for me because I've been a client for so long. I was one of their first clients in fact. I've been buying these kettles ever since I opened my shop. Which is almost 10 years ago now. How time flies... Sigh. The pink kettles with poppies. These are the ones everyone wants. Naturally, because they already have their pink cups and saucers. They want to make a set. They don't want to buy a kettle with dots if their cups have poppies painted on them. Do they? And all my clients are the same. They need a set. I won't be asking them for any more kettles though because these ones don't switch off automatically. Which is no good. Imagine an elderly woman - or a man - forgetting their kettle and going out. To the cinema or for some bread. And they come home to a kitchen which has gone on fire. Or worse: their appartment. So I won't be ordering anymore of these kettles to answer your question. No..."

Tuesday 20 January 2009

rearranging reality

Every morning he crouches over the newspaper, pushing a magnifying glass along the sentences and muttering every word he reads. It takes him all morning to get through the day's news. Once he has reached the very last word on the last page, he takes a pair of scissors out of his coat pocket and carefully cuts out letters which he places in a row front of him. He then spends the afternoon sorting them with the tips of his fingers, putting them into an order which makes sense to him.

Monday 12 January 2009

a cat's life

She was wearing a pair of slippers that had seen better days, thick woollen socks, a flowery dress and an anorak which would have preferred rain. He was out with worn trainers, exhausted jeans, an Aran sweater and a woollen hat to warm his thoughts. Both had wild grey hair which hadn't seen shampoo or a comb in months. Neither of them was happy with what the other was saying and both were hollering discontentment to whoever cared to listen. Their point of discord could have been the overweight cat that was attached to the end of a lead she was holding. The cat was making it crystal clear that it did not want to walk by letting itself be dragged along the pavement by the skin of its behind.

Saturday 10 January 2009

unknown to them (I)

Every morning, there are about fifty business men sitting in the same train wagon as I am. That's twice the amount of testicles. And each testicle is busily producing millions of little sperm.

thought

There are never so many women sitting in the same train wagon because most of them are coping with what these little sperm can do.

unknown to them (II)

The women in the train wagon are attached to ovaries full of eggs eager to break away and meet a fellow sperm. At any point in time, many eggs haven't made it to the gates. Some are halfway down the phallopian tube. Some have met their match. And the great majority have met nothing at all.

Friday 9 January 2009

the dream

She was talking to him through a silver-plated fountain pen. Someone appeared. She threw the pen away and began to growl and grunt, with her eyes set on the approaching figure and her trunk sweeping the ground in a rhythmical sway.

It was her mother.

Thursday 8 January 2009

a bright future

Little girls and little boys moulded by cold grey hands into cold grey sheep.

Wednesday 7 January 2009

He could do it blindfolded

His fingers tango across the keyboard, beating out the rhythm with a confident click of the keys. They know every move by heart. They've been tapping the same song for so long now. And when they have finished feeding data into the system, he beats the 'enter' button with an assertive flick of the thumb and lets his arm float gracefully into the air before he begins another cycle.