I NEED A NEW BOILER

This morning I woke and wondered where the sound of water dripping into water came from.
The hallway was full of steam, the ceiling covered in large drops some falling into a metre long puddle on the tiled floor. I could hear the water bubbling in the boiler, looks like it’s the original, which I switched off immediately half expecting an electric shock when I did so. The wet ceiling and walls I wiped down with an old towel was on the floor and opened doors and windows and thought, ‘I need a new boiler.’

NOT AT THAT PRICE

In town on the phone getting it in the ear, fair play, when I saw Trip walk past carrying what looked like a plastic see-through folder and an envelope, both A4, under his arm. I followed him down the steps alongside House of Fraser on to the Horsefair, through the Arcade and out the far end I lost him.
I finished talking on the phone then gave him a call.
‘You’re in town,’ I said when he answered.
‘Where are you?’ he said. ‘At home?’
‘No, I’m I town too. You want to meet?’
We sat in the post office waiting for his number, 418, to be called and then walked back up Stokes Croft on our way to case Cafe Kino.
‘It’s not ideal, is it?’ he said.
The two rooms downstairs are divided by a thick wall and connected by an open doorway too narrow for a performer or performers to play to both sides without blocking the passage of customers.
From Kino’s we went to Zazu’s that advertised parties/celebrations bookings. We spoke to the manager who came up from downstairs to talk to us.
‘Haven’t we met before?’ he said to me.
‘Yes,’ i said. ‘On Dove Street over a year ago...before you began work on this place.’
We liked the space had a built in sound system but, ‘We’ll bring our own,’ said Trip.
‘Start with the cheapest option and work your way up,’ I said.
‘The Bishop of Bristol had a party here,’ he said of one of the catered.
Outside, on Thomas Street, towards the estate I said, ‘The only way we can make that work...’
‘We can’t make that work,’ said Trip. ‘Not at that price.’

BAG WITH PIGEONS

FLAT HUNTING

I’ve been to Millwall to view a flat to council exchange my flat for. The reasons that make mine such a good prospect to swap are what make it a good place to stay.
I stood with a friend in front of a high chain link fence that surrounded a concrete play area in the middle of a large estate. A group of young men kicked a football against a low wall adjacent to the fence.
The flat we visited turned out to be on the second tier of three. We walked up the steps, along the full length balcony and knocked on the dark green door opened by a woman had short grey hair.
‘You can’t come in,’ she said. ‘You have no depth.’

DRUNK
(for all you Russian readers out there)

Ем позвонили прошлой ночью в Лондоне, "Ой, я не думаю, нужно быть," сказала она.
"Это то, почему вы позвонили?"
"Нет, нет," сказала она. "Я пьян".
"Это становится лучше," я сказал.
"Нет, нет, я думаю, что Вам может быть устаревшей, вы знаете, в пятницу вечером".
"Делает две из нас тогда".
"Вот почему я пьян".

DRUNK

Em phoned last night from London, ‘Oh, I didn’t think you’d be in,’ she said.
‘Is that why you phoned?’
‘No, no,’ she said. ‘I’m drunk.’
‘It’s getting better,’ I said.
‘No, no, I thought you might be out, you know, Friday night.’
‘Makes two of us then.’
‘That’s why I’m drunk.’

IS IT CROWDED IN THERE?

I went to the Love exhibition at the museum.
The Turner was my favourite - large canvas, confident, lots of movement; then the Spencer with his truly shaped couple been together through the years; then the Vermeer.
Tracy Emin’s contribution took me a while to understand. She had nothing original to say about love - but of course, that was the point, there is nothing original to say about love.
On my way out of the building I met Lecar. We shook hands and he said, ‘Is it crowded in there?’

PIECES TOGETHER

‘I stood in front of her,’ she said, ‘“Tell me you love me,” I said, but she couldn’t or wouldn’t and that’s when I set the steel in me, against her.’
‘Your point being?’ I said.
Sitting in Nero’s Corn Street. An espresso, best in town, on the table in front of me, between us.
‘The point is,’ she said, ‘I have nothing for you, and never did.’
MahJong came up on the screen, ‘MahJong, that’s my life over then,’ I said.
On the way up the hill the full moon shone a beam at the city, on to the side of the buildings facing.
‘They glow when the street lights are out and it’s pitch black,’ I said.
She complained about the hill, ‘How much further?’
‘This is the best route,’ I said. ‘That’s why we came this way.’
She’s told me three times now and I still don’t understand.
‘It’s hard to feel the pain of emotional deprivation when there was always food on the table and a roof over your head,’ she said the last time, saying she thought I needed it spelling out. ‘How can you value what you were given when what you really needed you didn’t get?’
‘So,’ said a woman to my right, ‘it becomes inverted and poverty becomes a way of expressing that lack, saying, as it were, how hard it is, how under resourced you feel.’
Another set of thoughts and still, in the early hours of the morning staring into nothing after waking from a few hours of sleep, I can't put the pieces together.

A BIT OF A LIFT

Godmother said she hadn’t been outside so didn’t know if it was cold but I assured her it was even though I too hadn’t yet left the building.
By the front door before walking out into the sunlight she said, ‘We’re taking our mother to the sea if it’s like this on Wednesday...she’s in a wheelchair so somewhere we can push that’s not too hard...mind you, you’d’ve thought she’d’ve lost weight, her being ninety-two, but she weighs the same as she did when she was fifty...’
‘Really?’ I said.
‘...it takes two of us to get her out the car...one pushes and the other one, usually me, pulls her out on to the wheelchair, which I have to say, you can’t get that close because of how the door opens so it’s a bit of a lift...’

COUNCIL VANDALISM UPDATE
(refer to my previous film COUNCIL VANDALISM posted 27 January, 2008)

IN THIS WAY

I’ve forgotten everything I’ve learned. I can’t remember the knowledge I thought I had. When she speaks I don’t understand what she says. She closes her eyes realising I don’t know what she means.
‘Cunt,’ said quietly by someone into my ear as they passed me on my way up to the bottom end of Stokes Croft from James Barton roundabout.
I stopped at the top of the steps leading out of the subway and turned round. A young white man, ginger hair, smiling at me.
I shook my head, felt angry.
Standing behind the railings above the subway entrance I looked down at the young man looking up. He smiled.
‘Yeh that’s right,’ I said. ‘Call me a cunt and smile, you fucking prick. Fuck off.’
He disappeared from view.
As I made my way to Brunswick Square I gave myself a hardtime, reacting the way I had, letting him get to me.
My policy is to not to give attention to this type of low level street aggression. It’s nothing personal, it’s not about me, not in particular, but it pisses me off, people thinking it okay to express themselves at me, or anyone for that matter, in this way.

BROADMEAD BIRDSONG

WORTH THE PRICE

I got “napped”. Regular readers might guess by whom but I won’t mention any names so as not to incriminate anyone other than myself.
He took us on a tour. Yes, “us” means we got “napped” though, when he offered to show us round the place she said, ‘We haven’t got time.’
‘Five minutes,’ I said to her. ‘We can do five minutes,’ and he was persuasive, ‘Come on, come on, have a look.’
Downstairs first.
‘It’s such a big space,’ I said.
‘It always was,’ he said.
‘I know that, but I mean it really looks it with everything taken out.’
‘Except for the mess,’ she said.
The brickwork has been sandblasted and the bar is going to be made of ash.
‘Look at it,’ he said pulling back the corner of a plastic sheet. I stroked the wood, ‘Lovely.’
Upstairs we stood at the top of the fire escape and looked down at the roof of the recent extension housing the new kitchen.
‘Mostly we’ll prep but we’ll do some cooking,’ he said.
‘It’s huge,’ she said.
‘The entrance to the women’s toilet is down there...’
‘What in the kitchen?’
‘...and under the fire escape is the smokers’ area, that’s all they’d allow.’
He’s never been less than generous, often a whole lot more. He said, ‘Come on, I’ve got something for you.’
We followed him into one of the rooms off the top corridor.
‘It’s from Nepal,’ he said.
A man I’d not seen before walked into the room. I thought he must be a new addition to the number of hangers on were always around when we drank and played music there.
‘See you could have lots of friends if you had that kind of money,’ she said as we walked away after saying goodbye.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘But friends you can buy aren’t worth the price.’

THREE-SEVENTY

‘How much is a Day Rider?’ I asked the bus driver this morning.
‘Three-seventy,’ he said.
‘I’ll have a Day Rider, thanks.’
‘That’ll be three-seventy.’

AS HE PASSED

Late afternoon as I waited for a friend I leaned against the corner of the Polish Advice Shop on Stokes Croft and Ninetree Hill.
I waited fifteen minutes.
Saw a man with a red mohican make his obviously drunken way down Sydenham Road with a woman had long blond dreadlocks.
I didn’t see my friend.
Red had a can of Special Brew in one hand and I watched him and Blond walk down the road, on to Stokes, until just out of view. Almost immediately, ‘I’ll fucking kill you,’ in a man’s voice followed by Red and Blond back in view.
‘What?’ said Red wobbling on his feet.
‘You cunt, I’ll fucking kill you,’ and I saw Shouter.
‘Leave him,’ said Blond, ‘Leave him alone. Stop it. Falon, let’s go, come on.’
‘You can shut up, you slag,’ said Shouter, pushed Red onto the road forcing a car to stop. ‘I’m going to fucking kill you.’
‘I hardly said anything,’ said Red. ‘You’re my friend, come on, talk to me.’
This went on a while. Shouter hitting and pushing Red back up Stokes Croft, via the road and pavement, then Sydenham Road, Blond saying, ‘Falon, let’s go, just leave it, come on.’
Red protested his innocence, ‘What?’ until Shouter, gave up, came back past me.
Red, angry, dropped his can, picked up a rock and a length of pipe from a nearby skip, started waving them above his head, shouted, ‘You wanker, I hardly said anything.’
‘Falon, leave it,’ said Blond.
Shouter turned, ran towards Red, chased him further up Sydenham before coming back down the road towards where I stood. His phone rang and he answered it.
‘It’s the missus,’ he said to me as he passed.

THIS CAME THROUGH MY DOOR

ARE YOU BOTHERED BY
Noise Nuisance?

IF THE NOISE FROM STOKES CROFT: CLUBS or PUBS,
playing very loud music through the night has bothered you at any
time in the past and especially last weekend night 2/3 February,
please Telephone .......
and leave a message with your contact details so we can organize a
group complaint to the Council and our local politicians.
Otherwise please e-mail: ....@hotmail.co.uk
Your anonymity will be preserved if you wish:- we do need to
know just how many people have been disturbed by this problem.

SANDWICH

In Kuvuka I ordered a large amaricano which, disappointingly, came in a paper, not ceramic, cup.
I sat down, took the sports section from the paper, read about Capello working with the England squad, impressed by his professionalism, the boundaries he’s establishing between himself and the players.
‘Do you mind if I share your table?’
I looked up and said to the man who’d asked the question, ‘No, of course not.’
‘Thanks.’
I moved the paper from the table where I’d spread it open to read, leant back on the sofa and reached forward to get my coffee. The man sat down, put his laptop in front of him before taking a bite from a rather large sandwich.

CIVIC DUTY

Last night, it was five-thirty. They, two men and a woman, were sitting on a bench in Brunswick Square. I saw them as I approached the bin into which I put the gum I’d been chewing.
One of the men, a green plastic bottle of strong white cider in hand, said, ‘You want to go and get it then?’
‘Yeh,’ said the other one leaning back.
‘I’ve got to do something else first,’ said the woman sat at the far end of the three.
The man with the bottle made a noise. The woman stood up, then the men.
The one with the bottle said loudly, ‘You’re a slag you are,’ and threw cider over her.
‘Oh yeh,’ she said. ‘That was clever,’ walking off.
‘You’re just a prostitute,’ after her.
I slowed down, keeping an eye on what was going on, how it developed.
Two community police officers came in to view from Portland. The men walked away from the woman who sat down on the stone by the pay and display machine. She brushed her fingers through her hair.
The CPs were near the corner of Moon Street when the man with the bottle went back to the woman and started with the verbals. I waited a minute until I knew the CPs hadn’t noticed what was happening and then went over to them because someone had to do something and rather them than me.
‘Excuse me,’ I said. ‘Excuse me.’
‘Yes Sir?’ turning towards me almost in unison.
‘There’s a woman over there, sitting down, just there, behind the cars there, she’s getting harassed by a couple of men, they’re being arse’oles, one just threw some cider over her.’
‘Okay Sir. We’ll take a look.’
When I came out of Second Step ten minutes later, having decided the job on offer wasn’t for me, there were two police cars, lights flashing, on the corner near where the woman still sat, four police officers with the man with the bottle, protesting his innocence, ‘What?’ the two CPs stood a little way back from the law.

WHAT I HEARD

In the early hours that now seem to be a time of day in which memories long forgotten by myself come to mind.
Today I remembered when my parents found a pack of cigarettes, numbies, that my older sister, they assumed but they were mine though I thought not to tell them, had stashed in the cupboard under the stairs.
When she got home later that night, my parents strapped her to a chair in the kitchen, like she said they'd done before, asked her questions. I sat listening, at the top of the stairs.
‘Where have you been?' said mother.
‘Out.’
‘Where?’
‘Just out...’
‘I said, “where,”’ said mother, the sound of a slap, my sister crying.
‘Steady on,’ said dad.
‘Where were you, as if I didn’t know,’ said mother - a slight pause - ‘And what’s that, on your neck? You slut,’ shouted, ‘Slut.’
Sister sobbing.
‘And what are these? Smoking as well as a slut.’
‘They’re not mine.’
‘Liar, you slut.’
‘They’re not mine,’ shouted sister.
Mother’s voice louder than before, ‘You’re a liar and a slut, a slut.’
Sister shouted, rising to a scream, ‘At least I’m not a bitch, you fucking frigid bitch.’
‘How dare you,’ screamed mother, slapping sister, who I could hear struggling in the chair, ‘How dare you...’ slap, scream...
Sister, ‘Fuck off,’ slap, scream.
‘Whoa, whoa, whoa,’ said dad. ‘That’s enough.’
‘Let go,’ said mother.
‘Enough,’ said my dad.
'I said let go.'
‘That’s enough...enough.’
It went quiet. Then, at the sound of the kitchen door opening, I got up from the top step, went quietly to my room, and thought about what I’d heard.

CHANNELLING

It’s almost five in the morning and I’ve been awake since three. I can’t sleep. Apart from the anxiety of my financial disarray I’ve been thinking about two friends of mine and the time, a few years back, when they were looking for new members for the mens group they were in.
‘I suggested you,’ said a man I bumped into recently who was in the group but now’s left. ‘But they said you weren’t the sort of man they wanted.’
‘What do you mean?’ I said.
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘They just said they didn’t want you in the group.’
‘Well, no reason they should, is there, really?’
‘I suppose not. It just seemed a bit odd, you being friends.’
‘Yeh, it hurt they didn’t ask, that’s true,’ I said. ‘But if they had I don’t know I’d’ve joined anyway.’
They advertised and interviewed. One of the men they chose from those who applied, is a prick, incredibly irritating, and whenever we’ve had occasion to talk he’s been dismissive and contemptuous of me and my creative endeavours. Though this might be more about what he represents than who he is, I think he might be channelling.