The Pure Life of Dreams

March 16, 2022March 20, 2024

A Trip to the Game Provides a Detour

The four of us are off to see England play at Wembley. And this time I have also brought Mama with me. I park the car in the daily parking lot and we walk some distance to the looming grey stadium before ascending to find our seats.

We climb high up into the rafters but the view is constrained by thick mud brown walls and brick sized holes through which you must look. Otherwise, to see the game, you can leave your seat and go to the balcony to peer over.

“Neither view is good, it never is.” I explain. “You are there for the atmosphere more than anything else.”

We walk around but there is not much to see regardless of which brick hole you look through. It is difficult to view more than a small rectangular patch of green at a time. And the players don’t come into the field of vision. It was the same view the last time I came, and I wonder if I could have paid for better seats.

When the game is over we get into the elevator to return to the car, however somehow we are now separated. It is only Mama, Lizzie and I left. Siobhan and Liam are gone.

I press the button to go to the ground floor. Supporters are getting off at different floors, but we have pressed a different button, a button wider than the others; and instead of depositing us at the bottom, the elevator slides onto a rail road track, and rolls out into the open.

I recognize that we are in Boston, and still stuck in the elavator car, which is clearly taking us to its home for its regular cleaning and service. Above us, either side of the tracks, are silver grey skyscrapers and in front, the leafy green elm trees of Boston Common. When the elevator arrives at its destination, it is at a place called Waystar. I need to get back to Siobhan and Liam. Siobhan will worry about us.

The manager, a portly man with ruddy cheeks, comes out of his office to greet us. “Sorry about that. You didn’t press the wrong button did you?” The office is a wooden shed inset by the front gates to the service station.

“No we didn’t press the gold one, just the white, ground floor button,” I replied.

“Well here is a card for a free dry cleaning service,” he says, as he pulls out a large blue tag from his thick woolen jacket and hands it over.

“No, we are only in Boston for a visit, we don’t need that. We just need to get back home.”

“Ok,” he says, and he hands me a brown skinned wallet. I open it. ”Don’t worry, there is enough in there.” I see a fair number of bills in the pocket fold.

“Thanks,” I reply.

We leave through the gates and head for the metro.

“Lizzie, take care of Mama,” I tell her, as Mama wanders off like a bird, taking little bird steps, one foot in front of the other, like a metronome, without pause. Lizzie steers her down the dark grey steps of the metro, taking care that she doesn’t fall. She nudges her gently to adjust her direction on each turn down to the platform.

Finally I can call Siobhan to say we are on our way.

Picture by Alexius Horatius, CC BY-SA 3.0, via Wikimedia Commons

March 5, 2022April 11, 2025

The Woman in Blue

Elaine and I are going to a party and she is bringing a friend that she wants me to meet.

We leave her flat in the Rockhart Estate and walk along the top floor balcony to a urine stained stairwell. And as we step down to the next floor the woman appears. She has long straight black hair, black heels and bare legs despite the cool air. And she wears a deep blue silk dress, flared at the hem.

Elaine says, “Here’s my brother from across the pond.” And the three of us continue down together.

March 3, 2022July 31, 2022

Brilliant Minds Do Not Care What People Think

After a lunch of carrots and an apple the lecturer tells the visitors, “Now we are in the building for analytics and linguistic development… And over there is Kim Spencer, our most brilliant mind.”

The lecturer points at a woman seated behind the glass door of the conference room; just before she slides her chair out of view.

I remember her from when she was working with us; long blonde film star hair, pointed nose, dark blue eyes, full bust. She is wearing the same low-cut shimmering gold cocktail dress as when she showed up overdressed at the Christmas party. I feel very proud of her and jealous.

I could have done more, could have been part of an academic research group, just like her. Instead I feel disappointed with my career path.

Design by Madame Grès via Kristine on Flickr/Ana Lee, cropped

February 23, 2022October 22, 2022

Two Yins For a Yang

Rain buckets down onto grey tennis courts, puddles coalescing into lakes.

On the football pitch the Spurs goalkeeper, a new guy from Thailand, makes a hash of the pass back and balloons the ball into the air. I want to flick his neck on the TV to see if he reacts. Somehow the ball lands at the feet of an opponent but when the attacker tries to kick the ball into the open net it goes to the straight to the goalkeeper. This time he makes decent pass down the right flank into midfield. The referee calls it a foul anyway and awards the ball back to the other team.

I want to yell at the ref too.

February 16, 2022October 22, 2022

Mad But Trying to Make Up in Copenhagen

Siobhan is mad at me and has gone off in a huff.

I leave to go into a student pub. It is early evening, in Copenhagen, young people crowding the bar.

At the back are the toilets, three stalls and when one comes free I check it out. Surprisingly it has clean white walls, and enough toilet roll, though the paper is grey. Then another comes free so I check to see if it is better. More rolls, white paper this time, also clean. And the last comes free so I check it too… I’ve been in student bars before. I need to be clean before facing the music and toilet dreams never end well.

Back at the first stall, I lift my travel pack and suit jacket onto a hook. The space is huge. Paper lines the bowl, thoughtfully. There is room to set everything down but when I start to sit, the liner slides off. A bright red foot tray is under the paper, follows the rim of the seat, in case you want to squat, feet balanced on the bowl. It is clean too, so I forget about the liner, remove the foot tray and sit directly on cold ceramic.

Outside it is bright enough for sunglasses, a beach town with a whitewashed glare; I haven’t been to Copenhagen, but I swear I am there. 1920s cars with gold headlamps on stalks gently meander and squawk, but the taxis are the black London cabs, they honk and are in a hurry. When I cross the road the old fashioned cars are the ones to stop, even when I am not at a cross road.

I climb a road curving up and to the left, past T-shirt stores, buckets of ice cream and Threshers, souvenirs stands selling rubber rings and air filled dolphin floats.

Across the road, Siobhan is eating at a restaurant, a covered terrace, balcony enclosed by a white picket fence. She is by the pavement’s edge and sees me, so I cut across the road and step through the gate, squeeze towards her table. A waitress carves the route, through tables crammed with people shoulder to shoulder.

Once I am by her side I ask Siobhan, What are you eating? but she is not talking to me. I tell the waitress, I will have French fries, Siobhan, the house salad.

Just as I am settling down, two young women also take their seats. We are packed tight, elbows touching, two round white tables pressed together, jostling for space, neither big enough for lunch.

The closest woman is blonde, short spiky hair, heavy black mascara traces her eyes.

Our plates arrive. She pulls out a deck of cards and deals a hand to her friend. She fans her cards, holds them up and away from my gaze.

“Stop shaking your carbs,” she says, only half amusingly, and I am at a loss for words.

“I can itch them instead,” I reply. But my joke falls flat.

She and her friend turn their noses up at at me, and Siobhan looks away.

Postcard by Hagens World via Flickr