Nurse, passport, coffin.

The nurse had taken my passport when she left. I suppose she wanted some sort of memento and it did contain one of the better photographs taken of late.

Rusty called yesterday to tell me that my passport had mysteriously been found under the nurses bed.

'What the hell were you doing under her bed?' I asked as the penny slowly dropped.

'I was looking for an escape hatch'. He replied.

'The only way you'll escape that woman Rusty is in a coffin'.

Bridges I have lost shoes from. No.1

the Event

More cycling tales.

Cycling and the pub do not make good bedfellows.

Grey and moody sky

Under a grey and moody sky I cycled, full of brio yet unsteadily fast, homeward. While distracted by thoughts of Lula-mae, marooned in Limbo Nebraska (pop 47) a bollard leapt into my path.

The bollard won.

Bruise

Days later I noted that the bruise resembled uncannily that grey and moody sky.

Look for the marzipan babies

http://pollocks.org/blog/

It is hard work being grown up

Curious Bums

The photograph is blurred as a result of my excitement.

I could not make this up.

I don't think I would really like to make it up.

I am thinking of having a tattoo that simplly says 'kill me, I've had enough.'

Frieda, Muse and pediatrist

In the pharmacy yeaterday ( I was looking for corn pads) a vision in starched white sidled up to me and offered to assist in my endeavours. Her uniform led me to believe her to be a nurse and her firm handshake indicated that she would have no problems gripping my wheelchair.

after making my purchase I offered her lunch which she accepted with a cheeky grin.

She said her name was Frieda and she was from Stockholm.

Then she dropped the bombshell... SHE WAS A PEDIATRIST and not a nurse.

My feet however wept with joy on hearing this.

the Event

Tristan, having found his niche as some sort of poet/raconteur performs on wednesday night (19th) at cafe Ravenous, Portobello Road.

I shall be going along to check it out.

Doors open at 7 apparently and the shit hits the fan at 8.

THE SHIT HAS TOLD THE FAN NOT TO COME.

Gone with the wind. The truth.

Many many years ago I spent some time in Hollywood, holed up in Clark Gables guest house working on a script for a cheesy Historical drama which would go on to become the highest grossing movie ever.

I finally lost my cool when the studio started re-writing the dialogue; the final straw was when they objected to: 'Frankly my dear I don't give a flying fuck.'

I removed myself from the credits there and then.

But is it Art Hmmmmmm

The other night (days blur at the moment) I attended with friends a production of Oscar Wildes Salome. It was being billed (verbally) as directed by Nick Cave. Hmmmmm

It was performed in the dirt yard (no one in their right mind could call it a garden) of a Pimlico squat.
The performance was billed to start at 8.00 prompt. We sat uncomfortably drinking cheap box wine from styrofoam cups (oh how eco friendly these grubby inheritors of the world are) and waited; at first giggling at the circus unfolding and the couples trying to stick tongues down others throats (I can only assume there were tasty morsels down there, yum yum), then with impatience and finally no patience we left.

I cannot review the performance... It didn't happen. I can only cringe at the memory of the scuzziest place I've ever been. My intrepid assistant(with the courage of a young Martha Gelhorn) entered the lavatory in order to photograph it.

Photo. Daisy Caren Vispi

The guide to the British Museum on the lavatory floor disabused me of the notion that there was no culture here... Sadly they were wiping their arses on it.

Nick Cave... Oh deary me.

Dylan, Scott Fitzgerald and Carribou coffee

Babs skypes from A coffee shop in St. Paul Michegan, she is on the run from Rusty and hanging out there before moving on. Over a carribou coffee she tells me that she is on Wabashaw; a street imortalised by Dylan in the song 'Meet me in the morning' which goes meet me in the morning 56th and Wabashaw, honey we could be in Kansas by the time the snow begins to thaw.

There is no 56th street in St Paul.

F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote 'This side of paradise' sitting in a house on Grand Avenue; Babs tells me that as well.

Babs teaches me a lot.

Tangled up in blue

A shop window stopped me in my tracks last night. Or rather something in the window stopped me; it was a blue velvet Playboy bunny girls costume.

A costume iddentical to the one that Babs had worn for a few weeks while working at the Playboy club in Chicago back in the sixties. I had caught sight of Babs as she bent to tie the shoelace of a young folk singer who I could quite plainly see would be soon tangled up in blue, the scut on her arse sending alarm signals as it bobbed in the neon glow. I ducked behind a pillar as she leant into him to pick a piece of lint from his coat then left when she was out of sight.

I stood at that shop window transfixed as the Blue velvet spoke through the glass.

It said: I first came to consciousness in 1962 as a girl called Gillian slipped into me and then twirled for Hugh, then giggled nervously as he adjusted the gusset and smoothed the knap on her breasts and her arse.

A string of men begged her to slip out of the club and then out of her costume and then post-coitally out of their lives. Until the last one (to my knowledge anyway) took me as a memento, a trophy.

I hung on his wall until he handed me on to a new girlfriend who kept me for many years in the dark with occasional outings to be slipped into and out of prior to her being slipped into and out of.

Over the years I developed my patina of cynicism.

that woman handed me on to her son who handed me onto his girlfriend who has slipped into me from time to time and now hangs me in this window, in all my faded glory for all the world to see.