Last night by Hoxton Square the light through the Venetian glass lamps made the ceiling look like water shimmering. I’d ordered poorly: soup and risotto resemble each other too closely in texture. I felt like I was swimming in a bog of cream-coloured dinner by the end. The macchiato helped.
We were five at Hoxton Apprentice, and we’d come in from the cold. Tonia had on mustard heels and Claire was clothed in shades of blue. Eibhlin’s eyes sparkle. Olive was patient in a group of four girls in publishing.
According to the Brita water filter, it’s been just over a month since we got back from the luminous laze-about in the French summer, me and Olive. I keep saying I’m concentrating on the writing and the freelance proofreading, but I still devour the job pages in the Saturday Guardian for 9-to-5s, and I still get a buzz hearing the old industry gossip. I can’t tell if I actually still want to work in book publishing, or if it’s just like that faint low-grade buzz you feel when you get wind of an old lover.
Outside again, London in late October, we quick-stepped on rain-shiny tarmac to Curtain Road. Downstairs at Strongrooms, Tom had been ringing in his birthday since three in the afternoon. He was speaking very slowly. Damien had been ringing in his birthday since five in the afternoon. He was leaning in very close.
Mia showed up in a dress and boots. “The old housemate left them,” she said, “just left two huge bags of clothes before she went.” “That was nice!” I said. “No,” she said, “she’d also left so much other rubbish we had to take a day off to go to the dump.” “Less nice,” I said. “And,” Mia said, “she’d also written ‘cunt’ all over the walls.” “Oh,” I said, “hm.” We found the jukebox and fed it all our pound coins. Downstairs, in a basement bar off Old Street, the Strokes still feel good all over.
Judith introduced me to James, who was wild-haired and spitting. “He’s absolutely mad,” she said, “but we love him.” “We met when we were twelve,” James said. “I grabbed her bum.” He told me later I spoke really good English.
On Old Street after midnight, the girls and boys are jolly in the road. There was a guy in a large pink hat, and a girl in fat pigtails and platform boots. A girl with bangs and big eyes walked arm-in-arm with a ten o’clock shadow. The N55 came barrelling round the bend.
Today the Sunday paper and the rain.
We were five at Hoxton Apprentice, and we’d come in from the cold. Tonia had on mustard heels and Claire was clothed in shades of blue. Eibhlin’s eyes sparkle. Olive was patient in a group of four girls in publishing.
According to the Brita water filter, it’s been just over a month since we got back from the luminous laze-about in the French summer, me and Olive. I keep saying I’m concentrating on the writing and the freelance proofreading, but I still devour the job pages in the Saturday Guardian for 9-to-5s, and I still get a buzz hearing the old industry gossip. I can’t tell if I actually still want to work in book publishing, or if it’s just like that faint low-grade buzz you feel when you get wind of an old lover.
Outside again, London in late October, we quick-stepped on rain-shiny tarmac to Curtain Road. Downstairs at Strongrooms, Tom had been ringing in his birthday since three in the afternoon. He was speaking very slowly. Damien had been ringing in his birthday since five in the afternoon. He was leaning in very close.
Mia showed up in a dress and boots. “The old housemate left them,” she said, “just left two huge bags of clothes before she went.” “That was nice!” I said. “No,” she said, “she’d also left so much other rubbish we had to take a day off to go to the dump.” “Less nice,” I said. “And,” Mia said, “she’d also written ‘cunt’ all over the walls.” “Oh,” I said, “hm.” We found the jukebox and fed it all our pound coins. Downstairs, in a basement bar off Old Street, the Strokes still feel good all over.
Judith introduced me to James, who was wild-haired and spitting. “He’s absolutely mad,” she said, “but we love him.” “We met when we were twelve,” James said. “I grabbed her bum.” He told me later I spoke really good English.
On Old Street after midnight, the girls and boys are jolly in the road. There was a guy in a large pink hat, and a girl in fat pigtails and platform boots. A girl with bangs and big eyes walked arm-in-arm with a ten o’clock shadow. The N55 came barrelling round the bend.
Today the Sunday paper and the rain.
posted by stellou at 4:24 PM
4 Comments:
How true it is! You do speak really good English!
Hrm.
apparently we speak such good english that matthew thinks that is our normal way of talking, and when the planets align and we talk to each other, we choose to bung on these fake singaporean accents.
hngh.
li'e dat is fake meh? (Meh? MEH??)
bbrug > YA, doncha know, the alcohol makes them speak the truth.
"Hrm."
cc > Eeeyur, he anyhow say. Cheh. Eh I tell you. Can you quickly train child to speak funny? Matthew will fall over!!
i hope olive isn't like someone i know who re-sets the brita filter thingie without mentioning it. throws many a thing of whack, as i also have the filter aligned with when we need to change the washing machine filter too. waaah!
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