The Coffee Spoon Addendum

In a café, at 9am, between a middle-aged man and a young lady seated by the window:

- are you enjoying it?
- er...
- do you know what it means?
- 'my struggle.'
- actually, it's 'my journey through life'.
- no, I think it is 'my struggle'.
- well, 'my struggle through life'.
- hmmm.
- so are you enjoying it?  read more »

A snooty waiter with a derisive French accent: the perfect complement to our meals. The three of us, young men, all straight, enjoying the possibility of a romantic dinner without the tantalising terror of carnal tension. The established conditions of design-based romance were all there; dim lighting, wooden tables, candles, comprehensive wine lists with fine local selections.  read more »

I want to be able to talk like a mass-murderer just as convincingly as a noble revolutionary.

Five dollars. And it’s a terrible glass of wine, too; I’m not even sure the cardboard it came from would taste this bad. But habits become rituals, and rituals are important. I like to have a glass of red wine on stage with me, even if I rarely ever drink from it mid-set. But this time it might well come in quite handy.  read more »

"Here I realise that our speaker is, amongst any other talents he possesses, an accomplished alchemist of social interaction. He is able to yell at us, force his way into our conversation to berate me on a social point some decades out of date, and then magically transform himself into the injured party, helplessly savaged by ill-mannered ruffians."

The road was wide, and long. I still had quite a way to walk. I heard footsteps approaching from behind me. I turned my head, and saw a man. He was tall and slim, reasonably well dressed, and seemed to be following his own direction. He was moving quite a lot faster than me. He probably hadn't had the night I'd had. I moved to the left, ready for him to overtake me.  read more »

You think you've put yesterday behind you, and then you walk smack into it on your way to tomorrow.

The whisper beckoned, quietly. As it got quieter, I knew it was moving; as it moved, I followed. I wasn't paying attention, but I knew I was walking in a straight line. The path became increasingly well-lit. The whisper became louder. I stopped.  read more »

It started with a scream. A loud, piercing wail, the force of which nearly sent me stammering toward the floorboards. It was a scream of excitement, of adventure, with what appeared to be a mild form of panic. It was beckoning me to follow, although I didn't know where. It was stunning, and magnetic; it spoke of joy and pleasure and comfort. Yet still I rebelled. I held firm, remained silent.  read more »

Michael Jackson had died. It was the great shock of the inevitable. The question was not whether Jackson would die young - of that we could be sure - but how, and when. In the end, it seemed like time chose well. Earlier and Jackson could have escaped trials and bankruptcy, of course.  read more »