No Longer Fit for the Party

Not fit for the party

I am in Paris in the banlieues and I am going to a party. Or at least I think I was invited. And I am parking my car on a deserted dusty brown and ill-lit side street. There are no other cars at first but when I park I find myself trying to squeeze in between a white van and a blue car. I have to shift my car back and forth to maneuver it into the space.

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Beware these Restaurants in Chinatown

Beware these restaurants in Chinatown

I am driving to Alexandria, Chinatown, with Lizzie for some good Chinese food. The road after the bridge is very steep, maybe 40 degrees, but it is straight up. I think the car will manage. But Lizzie goes on ahead, she’s faster, with her little black Vespa.

And I am trying to shout directions from my car but she continues to climb further away.

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Family Drive in the Country Turns Irritating

I take the short cut through the neighbor’s Tudor built house. They haven’t caught us walking through their house before, and it is the convenient route to the back of our house; but I always feel a little bit guilty doing it.

This time however, as I sneak along their low ceilinged back hall, an ill-fitting pine wood door ahead on the right creaks open slightly. It leads to the study and I won’t make it to the back door in time. Then out comes a man in round metal rim glasses; he has short black hair, a bowl haircut.

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Out on the Tiles in Chelsea

Out on the tiles

I am driving around town in a very fancy white car top down. Think I’m in Chelsea, because of the tall brown town houses in courtyards with gated parks.

In my hand I have a broken golf ball, a tiny stone poking from one end that I can push back into the ball with my thumb. And when I squeeze the ball from the other side, the stone pokes back out. I play with it, pushing, squeezing. It could cause some damage, but the stone doesn’t want to propel from the ball no matter how hard I squeeze.

I could try to throw it.

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The Light in the Attic

A light in the attic

Siobhan comes to bed. Turn off the music, she says. I am half asleep but I reach over and hit the mute button.

“Do I have to do it?!” She sounds annoyed, as she comes round to my side of the bed.

“I did it already!” I reply.

Later on, I am fully asleep when she reaches over, gently touches my arm.

“What is the time?” she asks. But I am asleep. She reaches further over.

“Ngghh,” I mutter and I push out at her. “Why you waking me?” And I push her more.

“Don’t fight me,” she exclaims, “I am not a ghost!”

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