A lawyers's office. Furnished by Ikea. Populated by a chinless solicitor who landed there via a time machine from a Dickens' novel, his teeth removing credence from claims that London dentistry has improved.
The framed "Rat Pack" print above the mantle clearly a set decorator's idea of instilling confidence in the UK legal process.
January 19, 2012
My body's impression in the sofa and the empty pizza boxes on the counter belie intentions of succumbing to the second and fourth deadly sins.
But that's what sick days are for.
January 18, 2012
The mangled bike crouches on a cement island in the middle of the intersection, its crumpled tires chained in perpetuity to a lightpost.
Spraypainted white how many years ago, it’s now the color of greyish chalk, speckled with the grime of a city street.
A solid spectre, waiting for the ghost of the cyclist who never finished their commute.
January 17, 2012
First evening workout at the YMCA of the year. A sea of tank-topped biceps and deltoids rise and fall, an upper body line dance in front of a mirrored wall. Metal plates clang against steel bars, just missing the beat of the gym’s blaring dance mix.
New Year’s resolutions have made it gayer than any Village People video ... all that’s missing is the disco ball.
January 16, 2012
Upstairs at the Patisserie, enjoying a Croque Monsieur. A mouse scurries behind the rubbish bin, and then peeks out, waiting for scraps. “An excuse for a free meal,” my friend says.
“At least he’s not in the kitchen,” I say, surprised at my indifference to rodents.
January 15, 2012
Secret Cinema called for a crowd of 1940s rogues to populate a warehouse cum war-torn Vienna. We mill through the crowd, engaging with punters and actors, smudging the lines of an already blurred reality.
January 14, 2012
The cat’s curled up on the bed for a mid-afternoon nap. Half on her back, half on her side, her bottom front paw cradles her head, covering one of her closed eyes. Like she’s the one with the hangover.
January 13, 2012
The waiters are sweeping up while we wait for our special fried rice takeaway. Chairs get turned on top of tables and the money cat’s arm is paralyzed after a day of beckoning good fortune. We take over the kitten’s duties, each waving one arm in unison, beckoning the good fortune of a midnight snack.
January 12, 2012
At first we thought a homeless man walked into the pub.
Then we realized that below his haggard visage, and beneath his tattered overcoat, were a pair of gold lamé trousers and a pair of red dancing shoes.
The only home he was missing was a Bollywood set or a disco-balled dancefloor.
January 11, 2012
High heels click and brogues brush along the rectangles of cement, tiled into a plaid pattern that matches the posh promenade's overpriced overcoats.
High street society too busy shopping to notice the giant hopscotch court beneath its feet.
January 10, 2012
An unexpected change in my morning routine
Halt or hiccup? Time will tell.
January 9, 2012
Went for a short stroll. A break from the keyboard in search of fresh air and a stone.
Twenty mintues later, I'm back with oxygentated lungs and a new pair of boots I hadn't realized I needed.
Good for the sole, good for the soul.
January 8, 2012
I stare at a landscape that's been
hanging around for more than a decade.
Bought on Cape Cod,
it's lived in New York
and four flats in London.
In this evening's dim light,
a visage appears:
two sleepy eyes and a jagged smile.
After all these years,
it has finally realized something and
it's not sharing the secret.
January 7, 2012
The magic quilt sits crumpled on the sofa, wrapped around itself, keeping its own memories warm, waiting to be reheated by whoever lies under it next.
January 6, 2012
Two blokes at the pub put on their scarves and zip up their jackets.
Glasses not yet empty.
I wander over to their table, set down my pint, and hover.
Perched like a vulture,
thinking of those who read NY Times obits searching for rent controlled apartments.
January 5, 2012
Rode the tube at rush hour this evening for the first time in ages. Having become so used to seeing off-peak faces looking at books and Kindles, I was taken aback when the commuter masks were displaced by a row of fists clenched against edges of Evening Standards.
Curiosity got the better of me.
I picked up an issue to peruse at home.
Now I know why the fists were so angry.
January 4, 2012
The bull terrier was clearly humiliated, having been forced out in public wearing his cone of shame. He planted his haunches at the base of the escalator, more in fear of the spaghetti maker than 'occupy Old Street Tube' hostility.
His owner dragged him on to the metal steps where he cautiously found his footing. He turned around, as best he could, given his Elizabethan enclosure, and looked back at me, his watery eyes pleading, "can't someone call PETA."
January 3, 2012
The cat slinks toward her dish for the fourth time in the last hour, unhappy to find the same food she'd sniffed at before.
I tsk tsk tsk at her foolishness, then saunter towards the fridge, hoping it has magically replenished itself since my last unsatisfactory visit.
January 2, 2012
Winter Wonderland — a festival of food and frolic that could tongue-tie a translator from Tower of Babel.
Throughout the kingdom of bells and lights, one language reigns universal: