17 October 2007
14 October 2007
Sunday morning
Recent model Merc pulls into the parking space outside my window. In between me and the car: six feet of pavement, railings, four feet of basement drop and stairway, my window and a net curtain, the table at which I am eating runny boiled eggs on bread rolls. Occupants of the car open their doors, then close them again without emerging. A man and a woman, he at the wheel and closest to the kerb. They are arguing.
It is a louder row than the usual listless bickering that characterises the interaction of so many couples out together and in public at the weekend. Or at least his voice is louder. Then there's a lull and I'm paying more attention to my breakfast and an interview with Jools Holland in which he extolls the virtues of keeping things bottled up.
Now they're out of the car, apparently about to leave for wherever it was they were going. I'd guess he's middle eastern, of the nearer shores rather than the Gulf, well built yet not the bloated prince type. She may be from another country abutting the Mediterrannean. She's well dressed, more likely to be his mistress or girlfriend than his wife. Aside from the intangible clues in her appearance, his argument seems too passionate to suggest a matrimonial dispute.
The discord resumes and they get back into the car. His gestures are more expressive now, he is practically throwing himself about in his seat. The exchange is being conducted in English, and his words "I could kill you right now!" are unmistakeable and lack any leavening trace of humour or figurative intent. Then he punches the inside of the windscreen, near to the top. That he manages to shatter it in that area is quite impressive - slanted, the glass is close to the driver so there's little room for building momentum and the surface is awkwardly slanted. Also, it's pretty tough glass. On the one hand, this would compromise the only act of intervention I had thought open to me if he started delivering on the "kill you right now" option, that of toddling out there and putting my fire extinguisher through the windscreen on his side as a sort of distraction. But on the other hand it's rather a relief to see him taking out on his motor, it suggests to me that his fury is likely to be diverted. And so long as he doesn't start lamping the lady, well, I can watch big expensive cars being trashed all day.
He jumps out, still shouting. Now the entire Sunday morning street knows that the girl in the car has taken the decision to leave him, but how could he have paid her more attention when he had a family to look after? So, no surprises in the scenario there. He punches the windscreen again, from the outside now, and she gets out, looking calm and sad. As she wanders off he gives the glass another clout, leaving a mark that looks pinkish in the powdered glass.
Holding his head he walks after her, out of sight. When they return he is hunched, and for a minute or so crouches at the open door of his car, her fingers touching his shoulder. Then they get back into the car and drive off. Now his blood is spattered about around the corner and several buildings down, but none outside my front door.
Christmas often brings out these tensions. Presumably Ramadan is just the same.
It is a louder row than the usual listless bickering that characterises the interaction of so many couples out together and in public at the weekend. Or at least his voice is louder. Then there's a lull and I'm paying more attention to my breakfast and an interview with Jools Holland in which he extolls the virtues of keeping things bottled up.
Now they're out of the car, apparently about to leave for wherever it was they were going. I'd guess he's middle eastern, of the nearer shores rather than the Gulf, well built yet not the bloated prince type. She may be from another country abutting the Mediterrannean. She's well dressed, more likely to be his mistress or girlfriend than his wife. Aside from the intangible clues in her appearance, his argument seems too passionate to suggest a matrimonial dispute.
The discord resumes and they get back into the car. His gestures are more expressive now, he is practically throwing himself about in his seat. The exchange is being conducted in English, and his words "I could kill you right now!" are unmistakeable and lack any leavening trace of humour or figurative intent. Then he punches the inside of the windscreen, near to the top. That he manages to shatter it in that area is quite impressive - slanted, the glass is close to the driver so there's little room for building momentum and the surface is awkwardly slanted. Also, it's pretty tough glass. On the one hand, this would compromise the only act of intervention I had thought open to me if he started delivering on the "kill you right now" option, that of toddling out there and putting my fire extinguisher through the windscreen on his side as a sort of distraction. But on the other hand it's rather a relief to see him taking out on his motor, it suggests to me that his fury is likely to be diverted. And so long as he doesn't start lamping the lady, well, I can watch big expensive cars being trashed all day.
He jumps out, still shouting. Now the entire Sunday morning street knows that the girl in the car has taken the decision to leave him, but how could he have paid her more attention when he had a family to look after? So, no surprises in the scenario there. He punches the windscreen again, from the outside now, and she gets out, looking calm and sad. As she wanders off he gives the glass another clout, leaving a mark that looks pinkish in the powdered glass.
Holding his head he walks after her, out of sight. When they return he is hunched, and for a minute or so crouches at the open door of his car, her fingers touching his shoulder. Then they get back into the car and drive off. Now his blood is spattered about around the corner and several buildings down, but none outside my front door.
Christmas often brings out these tensions. Presumably Ramadan is just the same.
08 October 2007
-
We had stopped drinking, after a couple of whiskies.
It was because I wasn't looking at him that I realised who his voice reminded me of: Benjamin Zephaniah. He has a gentle voice, quite thoughtful, with a slight lisp. He looks quite dissimilar to Mr Z, a fuller face (stocky in build, he is often mistaken for Nigerian), and of course much shorter hair.
I don't need a photographic memory as for the inanimate I've a camera and I'm happy with my visual recollection as far as the organic are concerned, but I wish I could capture exact speech. He said something like this, though more colloquial yet more eloquent:
"What's really lovely is being with her when she's getting ready to go out. You know, when they build it up right from the beginning. From the shower on. It's a bit like a striptease backwards but not really. And you're there in the bedroom and she is half paying attention to you but more on getting ready and there's the smells of perfume and hair things and all the clothes here and there and how she does her make up even before she's half dressed and no, I don't think it destroys the magic at all."
He wasn't talking of a particular she, but rather a generic one, though his character suggests that his interactions with women, or anyone, are anything but generic. He was talking of that experience within a relationship, and the wistfulness with which he said this suggested the scenario had not been played out before him for quite some time now. Or perhaps it had just been yesterday. Or that evening if they had then gone separate ways.
It was because I wasn't looking at him that I realised who his voice reminded me of: Benjamin Zephaniah. He has a gentle voice, quite thoughtful, with a slight lisp. He looks quite dissimilar to Mr Z, a fuller face (stocky in build, he is often mistaken for Nigerian), and of course much shorter hair.
I don't need a photographic memory as for the inanimate I've a camera and I'm happy with my visual recollection as far as the organic are concerned, but I wish I could capture exact speech. He said something like this, though more colloquial yet more eloquent:
"What's really lovely is being with her when she's getting ready to go out. You know, when they build it up right from the beginning. From the shower on. It's a bit like a striptease backwards but not really. And you're there in the bedroom and she is half paying attention to you but more on getting ready and there's the smells of perfume and hair things and all the clothes here and there and how she does her make up even before she's half dressed and no, I don't think it destroys the magic at all."
He wasn't talking of a particular she, but rather a generic one, though his character suggests that his interactions with women, or anyone, are anything but generic. He was talking of that experience within a relationship, and the wistfulness with which he said this suggested the scenario had not been played out before him for quite some time now. Or perhaps it had just been yesterday. Or that evening if they had then gone separate ways.
06 October 2007
Basel and Bern
Basel
Borders and boundaries and demarcations, territories within territories. At the airport you are given the option of exit left into France or right into Switzerland. Beyond the latter, a sealed umbilical road of a mile or so before Switzerland itself begins. National borders form much of the boundary of the city - customs posts slow the traffic but pedestrians cross to or from France or Germany unregistered. The Rhein Center sits in an opportunistic corner of Germany between the new footbridge to French Huningue and Swiss Kleinhüningen. It takes 9 minutes to walk from France, through Germany and into Switzerland (it took me longer in the other direction on account of the attractions of fish and chips from Nordsee). Several tram lines terminate within spitting distance of the border, though along the intinerary of the outer reach of the no. 10 tram, a single stop is isolated in France. An annexe of the main station, administered by the French railway company, lurks behind a visually impermeable structure, shabby yet intimidating in comparison with the rest of the station. Rather than 'Gare SNCF', the sign makes it clear that to enter platforms 30-35 is to enter France itself. The other big station in the town, Badischer bahnhof is a more solid and attractive structure, being large and designed to declare itself. Its innards are entirely Deutsche Bahn, from the ticket office to the coffee being priced first in euros. This extends to the forecourt, containing a green-banded German polizei van and one of those distinctive green and yellow 'H' bus stops. Nevertheless, numerous trains from France and Germany serve Swiss platforms and stations without bureacratic intervention.
Inevitable to wonder how, and in what circumstance, those borders might be closed or restricted. Reminders of the possibility of this in the SVP's sheep posters everywhere.
Evening. In a country as clean as this, one feels self-conscious just carrying litter. Somewhere around Zürcherstrasse I saw a bin on the other side of the road, crossed between the lights, walking over the clovered lawn into which the tram tracks are set. Bats were tumbling above the grass in the middle of the carriageway, I've never seen them so close before, under sodium lighting. Further down the road a middle-aged man on crutches waylaid me and addressed me in Swiss German, and then in English. He was not entirely sane. Grinning, he said 'I can see you are a game-breaker. Don't be a game-breaker! I am with the mafia, I shoot you, blam!' and with that he lifted one of his crutches to point at me, rifle-like, losing his balance and tottering backwards into the road. Regaining the kerb he assumed a sheepish expression, his repertoire evidently exhausted. We wished each other good night.
Apropos of nothing, Walter Benjamin once interjected: 'Germans, drink beer!' And they still do, on the move, from bottles, it is refreshing just to see it. Ditto the Swiss, at least in the north of the nation, and very brand loyal they are too, particularly in Basel, although the availability of Feldschlösschen in the shop fridges is mainly in cans. I see those blue and white cans in my sleep.
Bern
The River Aare passes around the town, flat but swift moving, a vivid milky turquoise. There was no river traffic but a small inflatable raft. That raft's two occupants lolled in the sun, occasionally maintaining their position in the median of the river with an oar as they were borne along. They were not equipped to make any progress in a contrary direction, nor did they appear to want to. Where they had started from, or where they would end up, seemed not at all relevant. Seen from the bridge, there was only now.
Borders and boundaries and demarcations, territories within territories. At the airport you are given the option of exit left into France or right into Switzerland. Beyond the latter, a sealed umbilical road of a mile or so before Switzerland itself begins. National borders form much of the boundary of the city - customs posts slow the traffic but pedestrians cross to or from France or Germany unregistered. The Rhein Center sits in an opportunistic corner of Germany between the new footbridge to French Huningue and Swiss Kleinhüningen. It takes 9 minutes to walk from France, through Germany and into Switzerland (it took me longer in the other direction on account of the attractions of fish and chips from Nordsee). Several tram lines terminate within spitting distance of the border, though along the intinerary of the outer reach of the no. 10 tram, a single stop is isolated in France. An annexe of the main station, administered by the French railway company, lurks behind a visually impermeable structure, shabby yet intimidating in comparison with the rest of the station. Rather than 'Gare SNCF', the sign makes it clear that to enter platforms 30-35 is to enter France itself. The other big station in the town, Badischer bahnhof is a more solid and attractive structure, being large and designed to declare itself. Its innards are entirely Deutsche Bahn, from the ticket office to the coffee being priced first in euros. This extends to the forecourt, containing a green-banded German polizei van and one of those distinctive green and yellow 'H' bus stops. Nevertheless, numerous trains from France and Germany serve Swiss platforms and stations without bureacratic intervention.
Inevitable to wonder how, and in what circumstance, those borders might be closed or restricted. Reminders of the possibility of this in the SVP's sheep posters everywhere.
Evening. In a country as clean as this, one feels self-conscious just carrying litter. Somewhere around Zürcherstrasse I saw a bin on the other side of the road, crossed between the lights, walking over the clovered lawn into which the tram tracks are set. Bats were tumbling above the grass in the middle of the carriageway, I've never seen them so close before, under sodium lighting. Further down the road a middle-aged man on crutches waylaid me and addressed me in Swiss German, and then in English. He was not entirely sane. Grinning, he said 'I can see you are a game-breaker. Don't be a game-breaker! I am with the mafia, I shoot you, blam!' and with that he lifted one of his crutches to point at me, rifle-like, losing his balance and tottering backwards into the road. Regaining the kerb he assumed a sheepish expression, his repertoire evidently exhausted. We wished each other good night.
Apropos of nothing, Walter Benjamin once interjected: 'Germans, drink beer!' And they still do, on the move, from bottles, it is refreshing just to see it. Ditto the Swiss, at least in the north of the nation, and very brand loyal they are too, particularly in Basel, although the availability of Feldschlösschen in the shop fridges is mainly in cans. I see those blue and white cans in my sleep.
Bern
The River Aare passes around the town, flat but swift moving, a vivid milky turquoise. There was no river traffic but a small inflatable raft. That raft's two occupants lolled in the sun, occasionally maintaining their position in the median of the river with an oar as they were borne along. They were not equipped to make any progress in a contrary direction, nor did they appear to want to. Where they had started from, or where they would end up, seemed not at all relevant. Seen from the bridge, there was only now.
01 October 2007
In a shop on Saturday. Queuing, there is a woman in front of me, and a woman in front of her, in front of the till. As she reaches into her bag for her purse her scarf falls from her shoulder without her noticing. The woman in front of me does and picks up the scarf, hands it to its owner. To my imperfect vision and poor knowledge of fabric, it looks like a nice scarf. Thin material, very white. You wouldn't want to just lose it, or discard it.
It's not the sulky undertone in which the scarf owner's 'Thank you' as she takes it that is so striking, but her facial expression, directed at the woman who has handed it to her. A look can be like a whisper audible only to the person addressed. This is not such a look, which I can see and decipher clearly from four feet back and several dozen degrees of angle skewed. It is of something between contempt and revulsion.
The woman in front of me looks in the scarf owner's direction just for a fraction of a second longer, enough to assure me that I haven't imagined the cast of the other's face. I want to say something but can't think of anything appropriate, useful, or that would make it better.
I can look at pictures in the paper of barefoot monks being beaten and ice melting that shouldn't be and while I think I'm concerned it's just an intellectual exercise. But this thing in the shop with the scarf I've been chewing at since. Though the woman in front of me has probably forgotten about it by now or washed it through by telling a friend who replied, 'Yes, some people are like that aren't they?'. And the woman with the scarf has perhaps changed her medication or is possibly on her way to changing herself. It was all in an instant, or it should be.
It's not the sulky undertone in which the scarf owner's 'Thank you' as she takes it that is so striking, but her facial expression, directed at the woman who has handed it to her. A look can be like a whisper audible only to the person addressed. This is not such a look, which I can see and decipher clearly from four feet back and several dozen degrees of angle skewed. It is of something between contempt and revulsion.
The woman in front of me looks in the scarf owner's direction just for a fraction of a second longer, enough to assure me that I haven't imagined the cast of the other's face. I want to say something but can't think of anything appropriate, useful, or that would make it better.
I can look at pictures in the paper of barefoot monks being beaten and ice melting that shouldn't be and while I think I'm concerned it's just an intellectual exercise. But this thing in the shop with the scarf I've been chewing at since. Though the woman in front of me has probably forgotten about it by now or washed it through by telling a friend who replied, 'Yes, some people are like that aren't they?'. And the woman with the scarf has perhaps changed her medication or is possibly on her way to changing herself. It was all in an instant, or it should be.
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