A flowery woman, seated on a couch, announced.
Where is my toy ?
Somewhere in the distance, the bells of an ancient cathedral, dark around the edges, the top bright and clear. A short figure stands out.
“Mam, dear, pray”, a silver tongue .
Where is my boy?
“Aha”, said the little man, “an abreaction surely!”
Saturday, 10 November 2007
Friday, 5 October 2007
More old stuff
“Tis pitty wine should be so expensive, For pork and brandy leave us much more pensive”
One of the things I actually like about England is sausage.
I am a great british sausage fan, and, yes, however justified the health authorities might have put the case at the E.C, I have always deeply regreted their apparent ban from the continental meat market : to me, leak and pork, pork and stilton, or even pork and pasnips,what a delighting food habit ! I just love them nicely burned, especially if I’ve bought low-price-high-fat ones. It makes the trip worthy, and why on earth did M & S leave France ? And what the hell is Per Una ? I am privatly secretly convinced that my father’s decision to invest in the firm was the downfall signal awaited by its executives to launch their crasy suicidal asda vamp.
Anyway, the thing is that as I left the cosy sleepish heated library the other day, I stepped out into the northern darkness – which came as a shock by the way – and said to myself : “Boy, nevermind E. Said, what you need is a Sausage”.
So sure enough, I stepped into Tesco Superstore and found my sausage easy ; but what I like with unknown bits of pork, is Wine. It helps getting the thing down the throat, the coarser – like andouillette, you actually need a lot of mustard with these unknown intestine bits – the more liquid. So, with the confident pace of the frenchmen that I am, I elegantly ushered myself in the wine section, only to stand in stupor for about twenty minutes, shellshocked I guessed in retrospect.
“Claret – Bordeaux” 2.49 £. “And that’s as decent a wine as you can get Sir”, whispered the voice of a posh maitre d’O, “freshly shipped in from a selection of undefinable european vineyards”. I eventually bought the thing, but no bottle of 11% located so far from its home is going to turn anywhere close to anything decent. It was disgusting allright. But surely it must be possible to find some drinkable wine for less than 3 pounds?
And the appaling answer is no ! I tried a spanish “La mancha” that I had to vomit altogether with my beef, and I’m pretty sure the latter was fine although you never know around here, I cooled down some hungarian wine that was fine as long as you kept it minus 10.c, remotly above it dragged the flies, I boiled some “Vino da Tavolla Rosso” with my lamb that got to smell so bad when chewed I gave it to the neighbour’s dog who’s since developed a liking to alcohol... I am now trying to get my friend Christopher to smuggle a hundred or so of fine 1.5£ thank you very much red wine bottles in his car to the UK, while sipping a rather dry canadian scotch wisky to settle my saussage full stomach. Who’s talking liberal ?
One of the things I actually like about England is sausage.
I am a great british sausage fan, and, yes, however justified the health authorities might have put the case at the E.C, I have always deeply regreted their apparent ban from the continental meat market : to me, leak and pork, pork and stilton, or even pork and pasnips,what a delighting food habit ! I just love them nicely burned, especially if I’ve bought low-price-high-fat ones. It makes the trip worthy, and why on earth did M & S leave France ? And what the hell is Per Una ? I am privatly secretly convinced that my father’s decision to invest in the firm was the downfall signal awaited by its executives to launch their crasy suicidal asda vamp.
Anyway, the thing is that as I left the cosy sleepish heated library the other day, I stepped out into the northern darkness – which came as a shock by the way – and said to myself : “Boy, nevermind E. Said, what you need is a Sausage”.
So sure enough, I stepped into Tesco Superstore and found my sausage easy ; but what I like with unknown bits of pork, is Wine. It helps getting the thing down the throat, the coarser – like andouillette, you actually need a lot of mustard with these unknown intestine bits – the more liquid. So, with the confident pace of the frenchmen that I am, I elegantly ushered myself in the wine section, only to stand in stupor for about twenty minutes, shellshocked I guessed in retrospect.
“Claret – Bordeaux” 2.49 £. “And that’s as decent a wine as you can get Sir”, whispered the voice of a posh maitre d’O, “freshly shipped in from a selection of undefinable european vineyards”. I eventually bought the thing, but no bottle of 11% located so far from its home is going to turn anywhere close to anything decent. It was disgusting allright. But surely it must be possible to find some drinkable wine for less than 3 pounds?
And the appaling answer is no ! I tried a spanish “La mancha” that I had to vomit altogether with my beef, and I’m pretty sure the latter was fine although you never know around here, I cooled down some hungarian wine that was fine as long as you kept it minus 10.c, remotly above it dragged the flies, I boiled some “Vino da Tavolla Rosso” with my lamb that got to smell so bad when chewed I gave it to the neighbour’s dog who’s since developed a liking to alcohol... I am now trying to get my friend Christopher to smuggle a hundred or so of fine 1.5£ thank you very much red wine bottles in his car to the UK, while sipping a rather dry canadian scotch wisky to settle my saussage full stomach. Who’s talking liberal ?
Thursday, 27 September 2007
“Roadhouse blues”
“You must be kidding”
I’d only had a bite of my BLT when the train started cruising. My fellow passengers eyed me unmoved as Branson’s idea of a treat bounced sideways at considerable speed. “I think I am gonna be sick”, I added as my stomach sent waves of indignation.
The manager had said, “No mate, you can’t come here, there ain’t no room, why don’t you go at the very end of the damn thing”. I was dripping with sweat, exhausted and without a trolley to roll my Downing street years I feel compeled to examine these days. “This is a train right ?”, I asked. “Yeah man, but the only space you get is in the loo and it ain’t my fault”. I somehow managed to usher myself in the very last coach with great labour seconds before “shiny shooe” propelled its electronic nonsense towards the North.
Mind you, I sure had some room in the lavatory, comfortably puking as the train rocked to and fro. Welcome back to England !
But I didn’t really grasp the extent of our post-industrial society future before two whole weeks of bus service. I asked God, “can there possibly be anything more temperamental than a dirty shaky lousy double-decker bus driven ultimately by inward looking psychos ?”
If you need a weekly discount, you have to bet. Get the red ones, and then they never come, get the magic ones, and so on. But once you’re in them, it’s a bit like disneyland, you are unlikely to actually die, but you’re in for a real good time. The thing simply hardly stops at all, you get to see people wave all the way and you can pretend this a bus trip and people around are so amazingly nice : what a nice place ! The people is so friendly ! When there ain’t no traffic, and you’re not stuck behind another bus which isn’t necesserily a bad thing as the driver can assume all the people waving are waving at the other lad, you get a sense of suspense and high adrenaline as the machine storms in town unaware of the tiny creatures who walk upon the land. Occasionaly, you might also benefit of the odd “hors piste” ride, bit of tourism on the edge always surprising even to the locals.
We are in a free economy now, buses like any other law abiding citizens can just do whatever they want do whoever they want, and you don’t have the choice unless you are mad enough to take a bike which I am pretty sure are to buses what local authorities were to Margaret.
I’d only had a bite of my BLT when the train started cruising. My fellow passengers eyed me unmoved as Branson’s idea of a treat bounced sideways at considerable speed. “I think I am gonna be sick”, I added as my stomach sent waves of indignation.
The manager had said, “No mate, you can’t come here, there ain’t no room, why don’t you go at the very end of the damn thing”. I was dripping with sweat, exhausted and without a trolley to roll my Downing street years I feel compeled to examine these days. “This is a train right ?”, I asked. “Yeah man, but the only space you get is in the loo and it ain’t my fault”. I somehow managed to usher myself in the very last coach with great labour seconds before “shiny shooe” propelled its electronic nonsense towards the North.
Mind you, I sure had some room in the lavatory, comfortably puking as the train rocked to and fro. Welcome back to England !
But I didn’t really grasp the extent of our post-industrial society future before two whole weeks of bus service. I asked God, “can there possibly be anything more temperamental than a dirty shaky lousy double-decker bus driven ultimately by inward looking psychos ?”
If you need a weekly discount, you have to bet. Get the red ones, and then they never come, get the magic ones, and so on. But once you’re in them, it’s a bit like disneyland, you are unlikely to actually die, but you’re in for a real good time. The thing simply hardly stops at all, you get to see people wave all the way and you can pretend this a bus trip and people around are so amazingly nice : what a nice place ! The people is so friendly ! When there ain’t no traffic, and you’re not stuck behind another bus which isn’t necesserily a bad thing as the driver can assume all the people waving are waving at the other lad, you get a sense of suspense and high adrenaline as the machine storms in town unaware of the tiny creatures who walk upon the land. Occasionaly, you might also benefit of the odd “hors piste” ride, bit of tourism on the edge always surprising even to the locals.
We are in a free economy now, buses like any other law abiding citizens can just do whatever they want do whoever they want, and you don’t have the choice unless you are mad enough to take a bike which I am pretty sure are to buses what local authorities were to Margaret.
Friday, 14 September 2007
cru 2005
What is it that makes our home so terrifying, so gently ...
I’ve got a new flat... Actually, I’ve got a flat. It’s in Manchester, it’s great. Now when I first arrived from Paris last month in what some of my acquaintances have boldly called “a desperate move”, I stood in front of the victorian house, lit a fag to drain my sweat (actually nearly snapped my back in Piccadilly on account of the luggage), and thought : “what a charming house”, with the proper Eton-Queen accentuation I pride myself to master.
My landlord arrived and we got in.
I had a stroll in the ground floor apartment. “Nice space”, I said. We went back to the living room and looked through the windows out into the street. “Great view !”, I exclaimed, “smashing light !”. I took a step closer, interested. “Right, so, I presume the shutters just slide from the top”, I asked in a isn’t-technology-a-wonderful-thing voice. “What ?” said my landlord, “no no, you just draw the curtains, like that”, he added while pointing to the ceiling. I kept my ground fairly, a little knowledgeable, slightly complacent smile on my face. “Yes yes, I can see that, but what about the shutters” I insisted. He looked at me. “No, there is no shutters” I thought, surely, shutters = volets, and curtains = rideau. And then it hit me : “But, that’s impossible, there must be some shutters”. I tried to reason him, “look, I’m sure the architects must have thought about it, you can’t just let windows open like that, any kid walks by, he throws a brick and you’ve got it way up”. “Well...” he said. He frowned. I panicked. “But you musn’t worry, it’s never happened before”. I protested, “but how do I protect myself, I heard the place was full of criminals !” “That’s a bit exaggerated”, he replied as a siren started to blow down the road, “besides, anybody walks at night close to the walls, a light comes up”. “A light ?”, I said. “Yes, a light”. As far as I am concerned, this was beginning to look like a exotic comical nightmare “What about the alarm ?”. “No, only the flats at the back got one of those...” You just want to draw the curtains so to speak.
Having settled nonetheless, I quickly realised that all local inhabitants precisely kept their curtains drawn, at all time, so that the place looks like tombstone. I stay inside, I get my food delivered, I only go out to buy whiskey from time to time, I don’t speak to anyone, and by God, I keep my curtains drawn.
I’ve got a new flat... Actually, I’ve got a flat. It’s in Manchester, it’s great. Now when I first arrived from Paris last month in what some of my acquaintances have boldly called “a desperate move”, I stood in front of the victorian house, lit a fag to drain my sweat (actually nearly snapped my back in Piccadilly on account of the luggage), and thought : “what a charming house”, with the proper Eton-Queen accentuation I pride myself to master.
My landlord arrived and we got in.
I had a stroll in the ground floor apartment. “Nice space”, I said. We went back to the living room and looked through the windows out into the street. “Great view !”, I exclaimed, “smashing light !”. I took a step closer, interested. “Right, so, I presume the shutters just slide from the top”, I asked in a isn’t-technology-a-wonderful-thing voice. “What ?” said my landlord, “no no, you just draw the curtains, like that”, he added while pointing to the ceiling. I kept my ground fairly, a little knowledgeable, slightly complacent smile on my face. “Yes yes, I can see that, but what about the shutters” I insisted. He looked at me. “No, there is no shutters” I thought, surely, shutters = volets, and curtains = rideau. And then it hit me : “But, that’s impossible, there must be some shutters”. I tried to reason him, “look, I’m sure the architects must have thought about it, you can’t just let windows open like that, any kid walks by, he throws a brick and you’ve got it way up”. “Well...” he said. He frowned. I panicked. “But you musn’t worry, it’s never happened before”. I protested, “but how do I protect myself, I heard the place was full of criminals !” “That’s a bit exaggerated”, he replied as a siren started to blow down the road, “besides, anybody walks at night close to the walls, a light comes up”. “A light ?”, I said. “Yes, a light”. As far as I am concerned, this was beginning to look like a exotic comical nightmare “What about the alarm ?”. “No, only the flats at the back got one of those...” You just want to draw the curtains so to speak.
Having settled nonetheless, I quickly realised that all local inhabitants precisely kept their curtains drawn, at all time, so that the place looks like tombstone. I stay inside, I get my food delivered, I only go out to buy whiskey from time to time, I don’t speak to anyone, and by God, I keep my curtains drawn.
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