You shall find love (for T.Emin)
Serendipity swings through the door, sunshine trailing in it's wake...
The cricket is going well. Time for me to do some serious watching, accompanied by a cheeky Sancerre (the other half of Tattinger had seemingly gone the way of the first) and The Guardian's sports quiz of the year (held over from December for the purpose of fictional construct). Joined by Slim, breezing in all Hawaian 40's shirt and dangerous wit. He sits at the table and a pint appears (they know him here). We dash through the hundred questions and score a very passable 92 (we were never going to get the equestrian sports but I should have remembered that David Wilkie won the 200m breastroke, not 100m).
Another flurry of Aussie wickets means we'll be batting before tea! Not quite Trent Bridge but certainly reminiscent of Melbourne 2010. The Sancerre evaporates, as does Slim's Stella Artois. We cover off key topics: the new book about Samuel Beckett, the potential British Lions starting XV against RSA and uncovering the truth behind what happened to the girl we used to go to school with who became a stripper and glamour model.
I get more drinks and manage to place a bet with David Jenkins & Sons "traditional bookmakers to gentlemen of a literary persuasion". Fingers crossed for 'Bottle of Smoke'...
A nice 10 minute interview with Michael Holding fills the break between innings. I remember, in the nick of time, that we (Slim & I) always have Cheesy Wotsits when watching England bat together (it's a luck thing). Thankfully the barman was two steps ahead of me.
A bowl appears along with an ashtray, a selection of Gitanes, Gauloises, Marlboro (soft-pack), Camel and Lucky Strike, as well as a 1965 Zippo that had seen action at La Drang. They know Slim here...
Some writers declare that the reason they write is because they are searching for the absolute. They are committed to being as raw and as honest as possible and hang the consequences. Others write simply to entertain, to obfuscate or to build an alternative world.
After a moment of confusion, bought on by writing something that was (in hindsight) easily misconstrued. I had to stop an ask myself: What sort of writer am I? Inconsistent? Yes. An autodidact? Yes. Confused? Undoubtedly. Wilfully obtuse? It would seem so. Does it matter? No, of course not. The joy of being all of the above, means it most probably doesn't matter one iota to anyone but me. But of course, when somebody reads something I've written and translates the meaning to be something completely different and possibly hurtful, then maybe I should pay more attention.
Especially the next time that I sit down to write something without a plan!
Who knows...
They are just hastily composed polaroids that will fade in the glare of the ever brightening sun. They will become bleached and distant until they completely disappear from view. A series of unread suicide notes, football commentaries, record reviews and postcards from the edge of the Tasman Sea. A handful of uncoded Enigma messages, a hidden cache of cassette tapes, badly recorded demos, morse-code transcripts from a ghost ship. They slipped under the radar, got lost in the traffic, flew south for winter and managed to lie low for the duration.
They mean nothing.
Unless they mean something to you...
The fact that there is a slew of London's finest record stores within 2 minutes walk of this particular 'Moon Under Water', reinforces the reason why this is the best day in the best pub. The fish-finger sandwich, gorgeous. The second Guinness, finished. At the Cricket, it is still lunchtime. Outside, the Soho streets fizz with life.
Leaving my paper and phone on the table. Nobody will steal my phone or my table. We just don't do that here. I climb the three stories to the roof terrace - empty. I'll come back up around 3:40 (tea-time at the cricket).
Time to pop into Soul Jazz or one of the other record shops in Berwick Street, Murphy might still be around. Skim through the racks and boxes. Pick up a mint condition copy of Weekend's wonderful La Varieté. Put a deposit down on a pristine copy of 'Ascenseur pour l'echafaud' by Miles Davis. Then back in the pub before she glides through the door at 1:30.
My table has been tidied, a bottle of Tattinger is in one of the pubs rare ice buckets (made from a WW1 German helmet picked up at Ypres). My phone has been recharged, newspapers folded and a printed scorecard of the morning's play placed on a silver tray for my perusal.
The hubbub of Soho seeps in a couple of seconds before she does. Despite the fact that the pub is quite quiet (oh the bliss), a palpable silence accompanies her first step through the side door. She knows where I'll be, same table, same seat. 'The view from her room' by Weekend drifts from the jukebox in perfect time. She is wearing a summer dress, her hair short, two degrees south of ebony. She is beautiful, not least because she doesn't know or care whether she is or she isn't.
She slides into 'her' seat. A double vodka and lemonade (ice, no slice) appears.
They know her here.
It is 1:35pm.
Everything's Tuesday
The break up of the Union.
I wake up in the middle of the night and have to check the news. What ghastly horrors await? What have they done this time? How much have they stolen? Can nobody stop them? Just exactly when did all the adults leave the room? Does integrity count for nothing? Does honesty count for even less these days? I always believed that the notion of 'one rule for them and another rule for us', was a rather trite appraisal of the situation. But it would seem that I was kidding myself... The old and oft spouted adage adage that "if you are not a Socialist by the time you are 21 - then you haven't got a heart. But if you are not a Tory by the time you are 40 - then you haven't got a brain" is something that has stuck in my craw ever since my very first day at work. 
Le Couple, La Radio et Le Vin
