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.
I drive over red tiles that are broken. They are spread across the road, and even across the bridge, it is coverered with tiles. All kinds of tile, curved Mediterranean roof tiles, garden pot tiles in different colors, piled high so I have to navigate the car between each pile. I could bounce the golf ball from the bridge and could cause even further damage.
Instead I drive into a warehouse where I see tiles piled up even more, and see now that this is where they come from. Workers are pilling them up and I have to manoevre my car carefully between the piles stacked at the entrance, in order not to scratch the sides.
I remember that I have the golf ball, that I wanted to throw it. I think about the damage I could cause, but also that I do not want to hurt any one. Then just as I am driving out I throw the ball back through the warehouse entrance. One of the workers calls out to another.
“What the hell was that?” as the golf ball pings around the warehouse bay. “Was it a ball?” The other spurts out as he ducks down. Luckily it doesn’t hurt anyone.
I like my car, it’s fancy enough that I can press a dashboard button and it will shift its looks. I press the button for show, and there is a whirr as it flicks its blonde hair across the bonnet and over the headlamps which grow long fluttering black eyelashes.
I am with a platinum blonde, bolt straight hair, almost silver in color, cut in a bob. She is thin and tall, has a soft pouty face. We are having a party in my apartment. A good view of the city. I sense she is a little bored; of the party, or of the guests, or perhaps she is not into me as much as I am into her. Siobhan is there, as well as Nena’s friends. The woman is leaning against a doorway, surveying the room and I look up at her.
You. Are. Gorgeous, I tell her. She instantly brightens up, gives me a wide smile.
Let’s have some Pimms and take a bath, she announces.
OK. I get two crystal tumblers, but they are not matching. Regardless, I pour in the orange brown liquid over ice.
I tell people the party is over. A dark haired boy, early teens, is one of the last to go.
I’m finishing up my laundry, he says. I cannot believe someone brings their laundry to a party.
We’ll cancel the cycle, I tell him. The console of the washing machine looks more like the back panel of a stove, old, black, with mechanical dials for the different cycles. I press various buttons trying to stop it. The console falls forward, is loosely connected to the base of the machine with only a couple of wires to prevent it from being entirely disconnected. I prop the console back up. The boy wants to unload his clothes from the machine.
You can’t go in there, I tell the boy, pointing towards the bathroom. She is waiting for me there.
Through the doorway, I see the woman lying down on what looks like a bed. She is wrapped head to toe in a blue blanket like a shroud. The boy will just have to carry the laundry home wet.
Staying at a château adjacent to the Lac Leman, gold trim and chandeliers.
We are having a party, lots of wine, beer, on the TVs are football games. England is playing Portugal, and across the front of the blue and white shirts of the England team is written “DOWNING”. The Portuguese also have a name.
Another crowd, of Americans this time, shows up. I don’t know this crowd, but one of them comes over, points to a TV.
“Who’s playing?”
“Portugal,” I reply.
But he says, “No, it’s Turkey.” And close up, I see he’s right.
I go over to a table to get more alcohol.
“Give me more wine.” a squat woman tells me, and I am annoyed. There is not much left, but I split the remainder. It’s fizzy. It’s actually ginger beer.
Tired now, I retire to my bedroom, but I am afraid this new party will keep me up. I lie down and hold up my hand. The cut on the back of my index finger is not healing. It is a vertical line, the length of the finger. I look closely and bend it; the cut opens out to reveal pulsing flesh and organs underneath.
Now Germany has a free kick and to celebrate, the team does a slide, face first, arms spread out. Some of the players get their head and bodies stuck, they are upside down in the grass, legs flailing comically in the air.
They complain that the ground is too soft to take a free kick, and to prove it they try the slide again. Three new holes side by side are created by the players heads. The ref is irritated. He puts a marker to the right of the third hole.
“You can take your kick from here,” he says.
The England team line up across the goal line. The goal keeper parries the ball but it ricochets off a teammate and bounces over the line despite the wall of players. We attempt to clear it, but it is clearly a goal.
