The chipped tooth ...

Last Thursday, I chipped a front tooth - I'd been watching a spooky movie, sharing, with Anne, a bottle of Spitfire, nibbling some dark chocolate like a fastidious dormouse - 

Perhaps in anguish at the fate of the movie's sensitive hero, played by Jake Gyllenhaal, I started grinding my teeth together - 

Within seconds the damage was done - I stared, horrified, at my reflection in the bathroom mirror - 

That night I dreamt that I had been turned into a gap toothed old timer - there I was, with my straggly white beard, the young sheriff's loyal sidekick, my wattled neck protruding from a checked shirt -

Yesterday, however, my elfin dentist, Sharon, restored my tooth and, by so doing, restored my spirits - 

I drove to the surgery listening to John Coltrane - I drove past a drive in McDonald's, a primary school and The English Rose Cafe - 

I lay, supine, on Sharon's silver chair, whilst her clever drills did their intricate work - 

My eyes were shut during the treatment - there was indie music on the radio - 

Soon Sharon was holding up a small mirror for me to look into - there I was, once again, I thought, a silvery haired flaneur, ready for any louche adventure - 

I put on my jacket, clasping Sharon's delicate gifted hands - 

The charm of ironing ...

I've just finished ironing - as I calmed a stroppy linen shirt, I thought of all the times I've stood before an ironing board -

I used to watch my mum ironing, calmly working her way through a Hadrian's Wall of my dad's vests - later, I'd watch Wells Fargo - I'd colour in a map of Ghana whilst Dale Robinson hunted down unshaven killers -

When I was teaching, I'd iron my school shirts every Sunday afternoon - I'd think of the week ahead - my apparatchik's suits would be hanging in the wardrobe -

Now I iron gaudy shirts - I've thrown away my suits -

But the charm of ironing remains -

I'm still soothed by the hissing of the steam iron - I still see ironing as a metaphor -

Each smoothed garment is a problem solved, a grief assuaged -

The Artist, one Bank Holiday Sunday ...

Heading back to Middle Beach, I clasped my I phone as if it were a precious amulet - I admired the rare colours of a shell - the tide was coming in - 

Small clouds hid the sun from time to time - it was Sunday morning - a yacht was anchored just offshore, its sails furled, swinging on its anchor - 

A lean sun tanned woman strode past us, on her way to the Naturists' beach - later in the year, naked men would haunt the dunes - 

Canvas windbreaks guarded brave pensioners - jolly families played beach cricket - there were many anxious Golden Retrivers - 

The winter storms had cut into the sand dunes - upon the new sharp ridge, I saw an artist, painting the vista before her - 

I stood for some moments, watching her - what shapes, I wondered, was she painting? How did she see this world? 

I thought of Hans, painting my portrait in his studio, the exciting smell of turps and joints - 

Hans made the mundane world into a garden of spooky delights -

I remembered the first time I saw his painting of the Safeway Lovers - 

Abbotsbury Castle, forgotten names and songs ...

Walking towards Abbotsbury, along the South Dorset Ridgeway, I felt as though I was close to the sky, far from my well ordered house, my soothing routines of lattes, my gentle explorations of memory - 

Here, we passed by tumuli, bright turf under our feet, saw lonely farm houses, gazed down at the ancient sea - sheep cropped the grass - dark birds circled overhead - 

The Ridgeway passed close to Abbotsbury Castle - we'd seen its sleek chalk hull for some time - ramparts enclosed the summit of a hill - there were a few wind sculpted trees within the enclosure - 

We stood before the south western entrance to the hill fort, high above the world - I could see the shingle wall of Chesil Beach, the dim outline of the Isle of Portland - there was the silver blade of The Fleet - 

I thought of the tribesmen who had shaped this place, trying to summon up their names and songs, but I only heard the wind - 

  

 

An evening in The Golden Eagle ...

Spike, the master of vinyl, donned his illuminated pickelhaube just before midnight - he darted back and forth around his decks, flourishing iconic 45s - 

Richard and I made our way to the bar, easing our way past tipsy bravos, grave gaffers, loud boys and edgy sirens - we were served our pints of Okells by the imperturbable youth -

I survived a visit to the gents - the skills honed in Glengariff were put to good use - 

Won't get fooled again pealed joyously from the pulsing speakers - we danced imperceptibly -

To my chargrin, Spike did not ignite an aerosol can - 

Later, Richard read me the best poem he'd ever written - 

In Rosie's ...

I'm sitting in Rosie's, about to glug a bumper - a jazz band will soon be playing - diners in Friday finery are eating sea food - Richard's just told me about the carpet seller of Konya - 

In Albert Road a pale beggar asked me - any money for the homeless? 

In Adelphi Books I saw the habitat of the portly wheezy book seller -

Richard's just said I see only one beard, but that's more than I saw last year - 

He pauses - are these people successfully riding the waves of austerity? 

Rosie's 

20.31

May 2 2014

The roof top bar in Shoreditch ...

Watching the creatives smoking dizzying habanos, I sipped my Peroni - 

I recalled the first time I'd inhaled a cigarette - I'd smoked, off and on, for a number of years - when my heart was broken, I'd sat in my car, wreathed in the smoke of Gitanes - 

I was lounging in a roof top bar - below me were the streets of Shoreditch - beautiful creatures rode bicycles - the foyers of PR agencies showcased feverish street art - mysterious installations filled gallery spaces - 

Sophie and Paul were showing me aspects of their world -

The habanos available were listed after the cognacs, along with their smoking times - 

I suddenly wished that I was wearing black - 

There was a wood burning stove in the centre of the roof terrace -  

They give you rugs here, in the winter Paul said - 

I watched glowing clouds move across the London skies - I finished my Peroni -