Overcome

High heeled shoes that could pierce your heart

“I can't just sip a drink, I can't just sit their looking at it or holding it letting it swirl around in the glass. I get nothing from admiring the colour or the bouquet, I don’t want it just to be sitting there dumb while I go about doing something else, maybe reading a book or in conversation. I can't do any of that, I have to drink it, in fact I'll start drinking it as soon as it's poured at the bar. I'll drink some, just to get it clear from the edge just in case I spill some on the way back to the table, at least that's what I try to make it look like. If I'm in a bar I'm there to drink, there I've said it.”

The speaker retreated from the spotlight and took a seat at the rear of the stage, a ripple of applause came back at him from the audience. It was a tough gig, sympathy was scarce, like a taxi after midnight, those well healed individuals knew what he was saying , he was one of them but they were reluctant to acknowledge his position or by any means show approval for all that had been said in the long speech. The event drew to a close and mumbled thanks drifted here and there, hands were shaken, men kissed the hurried cheeks of women wanting to be elsewhere, staff flipped chairs and nodded as they tidied things that needed tidied. The lights were slowly turned up, shadows left by any available exit, gold features, sculptures and drapes appeared from the gloom as the flood of the lamps passed over. All he could see were the backs of the audience, all now headed outside, clearing their heads and shouldering jackets and coats. Good to see them go.

Outside the regular patterns of rain were drumming onto car roofs, scattering umbrellas and glistening flagstones, the tropical rainfall covered his escape, back to the hotel, back to find some sanctuary, back to the bar. The lobby opened it's mouth into a dark jungle-wood panelled lobby, lights were dim, exits glowed green, shadows lurked away somewhere else and low piped muzak sax tried hard to create a civilised atmosphere. The bar was warm and smokey, unhealthy but welcome like a seat on a busy train. A waiter carried a tray of roast beef sandwiches across his advancing bows, mustard and horseradish wafted past. He laid the tray in front of a greasy, sun-glassed man nursing a glass of red wine. A girl sat beside him, black dress and fox fur jacket, buried by the moody shadow pool of a winged leather funeral chair. The buttons glinted in the amber glow. Quickly he caught the barman’s eye and pointed to the optic rack, “double please!” the barman nodded, “Room 230”. In a single sweet move he dropped his coat and picked up the glass and as was his habit took a mouthful. The hot buzz alighted briefly on tongue and throat, moved around his mouth like some spell looking for a victim and then he allowed the swallow. In his head, in his brain, at the core of some place between thoughts and soul another light began to glow. No instant light like an electric bulb, it was more of a rising, slowly throbbing flame, held in a lens, held in check but powerful enough to escape given the chance. It was about eleven thirty by this time.

Time passed like slow clockwork lubricated by maple syrup, he got up from the chair and signed the tab at the bar.

The call girl was walking towards him, blond hair and fox jacket and good times. Circles around her eyes, eye liner and care all mixed up, a cheek bruise. Somebody had given her a rough evening. Her high heeled shoes and low neck line could have pierced the hardest, stoneymost heart. She looked like she was afraid of everything. In her hand was a brandy glass, warm and golden, lipstick on the edges and two fingers of liquid left in it. As she passed she whispered, “I'm just dying for a drink”. There are hotel corridors and lobbys all across the world, places to relax, forget, travel and work in, just don't get caught in one like two ships in a fog.

“I don't care what country you think it is!” shouted the policeman, “this isn't there, this is here!' He fingered the gun in the black holster, he fingered the fabric of his trousers, he was sweating a mixture of used up rain and used up fear. “West Chesterton Hotel” he barked into the radio mike clip on his shoulder and looked ahead waiting on further instruction. The handset gave a tone and crackled, “Ok, let it go...over.” The policeman acknowledged the message swung on his heels and exited the bar, “don't know WHAT I'm here for!”

We all hear voices sometimes, none of them are God.

“I'm tellin' ya the only way that you can beat this thing is with a complete change of lifestyle, you need to get something else. Get religion, get fit, take up golf, find a good woman, find an interest that takes you and keeps you at least a thousand miles away from this. But you can't ever do it, all the people you know, all the circles you move in, all the beats you walk and streets you stumble into. Every gold plated excuse and reason that you try to dredge up to explain, they all come from the same source and you need to run in the opposite direction.”

“I can't just sip a drink...”

He called the lobby, “Taxi, charge it to Room 230, five minutes?” The call girl dragged on the fox fur and left the room, the brandy glass on the nightstand was empty now.

Hello Colombia

Colombia. An interesting place that I once visited about 12 years ago. The traffic and vapour filled atmosphere in Bogotá was, as I recall pretty intimidating as was the apparent threat of kidnapping. Of course nothing bad happened and I had a really enjoyable visit and was taken by the very kind and friendly attention I received from all those that I met. We stayed in the Tequendama Hotel which is something of a colonial and historic legend in itself. Spacious and cosmopolitan with a faded splendour and air of controlled decay about it, soldiers and suits were everywhere and the staff seemed panicky and overworked. The views from the roof over the city were impressive – I'll remember that for a long time. Though I was not actively participating in it the reason for the trip centred around a somewhat shaky religious quest and period of frustrated exploration. The shelf life of this topic ran out a long time ago but the pleasant memories of the thin air, happy yellow taxis, street vendors, steaks and tomatoes and hunger for American Dollars remains. Moving on leaves gaps but in time they are filled.

Wet May

May was the wettest May since records and things like that began. As a direct consequence windows everywhere are at their dirtiest (since records began). This appalling situation can only be rectified by decent, deep cleaning using the well established skills and techniques of the professional window cleaner (as above). Now it's June and for the mean time the rain has stopped, the windows are clear and usable once again and we can see a way ahead. As for the car windscreen, it needs attention as do some other bits of the car, June will be a busy month.

Good at some things

It's great to be good at things. Fixing and refixing your car, custom jobs, alterations and improvements. Rides clean and pimped to perfection. Round here we kind of sketchy on that type of detailed work, kind of lazy in some ways and not really as creative and artistically inclined as the many great design exponents and engineers of these motoring masterpieces. They remain admired from afar while my car is used with the dull regularity of a washing machine, freezer or microwave. I had denied the car soul and personality; this is mainly due to lack of funds, skill, resources and time. That's it then - but there is a special relationship that I can't quite define...

This motor clearly has soul and personality.

Bit of a city

"Hello world" says the sign, hello from a place outside of Birmingham, a city in England, a country in the UK and part of Europe. People regularly come to this spot from all over Birmingham in order to leave it, it's that kind of place but not, despite the behaviours exhibited here a bad place. It is simply Birmingham and this is view from inside the airport towards what is out. For some reason would be air passengers casually abandon drinks bottles here, there and everywhere in the airport. That's because bottles from Birmingham cannot be brought into the airport and taken on aircraft, it's against the rules. Fair enough.

Glasgow Mission City

I was in Glasgow, just driving around, looking up at the buildings, looking down at the ground.

Cities are fine for short periods but who would want to stay there? They are primarily designed for business, pleasure, commerce and litter and diseases. Not much else survives apart from stray cats and saxophone tunes riding on the warm breeze or cold fumes. That's what cities are mostly about. I caught a lot of shoppers, office workers and deadbeats, every one's face seemed stuck somewhere else, pointed down and set to avoid eye contact. people walked and crossed to the drum beat of a traffic sound scape and the flash of lights. Occasion rain seemed to scare them as they were lured into some eatery or other by the deep smells of onions, garlic, cooking oils and prices and menus written in chalk on boards. Today I wasn't so hungry, it just wasn't for me. I got back into the car, the short walk and the free parking were enough. I headed out and home.

Through the past darkly

Cougar snapped through the net curtains of a borders hotel room. Not often you get your car almost in the room beside you, not that I'd really want that to happen. We had a nice sat nav inspired run across single track roads and quiet country glens, the fence posts, sheep and hillsides drifting past until we reached our destination. Then, next day back home via busier, normal roads all the way home.

Hidden in there

Somewhere in the finely sculpted side panels of a CRV is the gloomy reflection of a Cougar parked alongside at Dalmeny Station. Ways of seeing, ways of not seeing, ways of looking and ways of ignoring altogether. I like the idea of car reflections, reflected in other cars. All I need to do is park next to some nice, clean and shiny vehicles and then snap.

Music in cars

Games for May and music in cars. The Piper at the Gates of Dawn cannot ever be described as a decent album for motoring or cruising to. It would only work if you were travelling across some corrugated field, driving under the influence in Barcelona or being help captive, perhaps after being kidnapped and lying across the back seat looking up at the roof as you headed for some mystery destination. It doesn’t work at all as a motoring album, short on anthems, heavy beats or relentless shredding and screaming. Forever Changes by Love is the same, all too spiky, intense and filled with gear changes and fits of dynamic passion. Classic but no use to the casual motorist wanting to while away the journey beating drumbeats onto a warm steering wheel or worse whistling, humming or tap tap tapping like some Edgar Allan Poe chisel beaked raven. Then again Piper and Changes might keep those annoying relatives or flotsam us human cargo passengers stunned into meek and obedient silence, until the next service stop. Music can have it’s uses, some people even listen to it I am told.

Had to...

...use this picture but never when driving or considering it and certainly not when I'm trying to shed a few pounds of ugly middle-aged fat tissue. I could of course walk but driving these days and at these prices is such a modern and sophisticated pleasure.

Minis are OK

Once the golden shower of nuggets are over I retire to the back seat to concentrate on a dessert of sorts. The fruit corner pot has been with us in various guises since about 1993, often copied, cloned or replicated but never bettered than by the efforts of the good people of Euro-dairy giants Muller. What an idea, taking a pot of fruity yoghurt and removing fruit from it, placing it in a separate compartment and then expecting the consumer to mix it up within the free space of the larger part of the tub. I wonder if anybody doesn’t get that and mixes the yoghurt, spoon by spoon with the tiny fruit portion. Perhaps some people consume both parts separately, at different times. That would be odd.

The trick is to get the lid pulled back from the container in one smooth move and leave no trace of silver sealant on the white plastic base. The worst disaster that can befall the fruit corner and it’s consumer is to have to eat it through the shredded remains of a yoghurt spattered lid. This scores close to zero points for food hygiene and les than zero for satisfaction. You have to take your time, treat the flimsy pot with respect and pull the lid back so that it all comes free in one piece. You may then lick the underside, if only to bolster up the Muller advertising campaign of a few years ago. Having said that, sometimes, even after sever tilting or prolonged upside down storage or carriage no yoghurt sticks to the inside of the lid. How can that be? Next thing will be an instant porridge review.

Prospecting

Bucket of nuggets

At first it seemed like a good idea. I was hungry and the bucket of chicken nuggets was available. I prised the lid free and began to eat and dip; three kinds of dip, tomato ketchup, barbecue and garlic mayonnaise. I sitting in the front seat of the car so the hot bucket was on my knees and the dips, all carefully opened in the well by the handbrake. A simple manoeuvre allowed me to pick up a nugget, bury it in the sauce tub and then eat it. The problem was, being right handed I wanted to dip and eat with my right hand so the nuggets were travelling too far and the risk of a sauce drip in my lap was a real possibility. This added a stress dimension to the meal that frankly I could have done without but the nuggets tasted fine. In fact the first twelve were pretty good, the next four were OK, the seventeenth and eighteenth were more laboured and nineteen and twenty were very difficult indeed.

I put the bucket, now three quarters empty onto the passenger seat and exhaled in a steady and controlled fashion. I took a slug from the Diet Pepsi, returned the cup to the cup holder and set my head back on the headrest. One more nugget I thought, this one, still warm would be eaten without any dip. I awoke, still in the drive through car park, surprised to be there, at least four hours had passed. During this time I’d had a vivid dream about New York, helicopters and donkey rescue centres. I had seriously underestimated the narcotic and soporific powers of the chicken nugget.

The wind must have blown the bucket away and two crows bickered over the remaining nuggets. For them it was a feast.