A suburban Saturday morning blog from 44 Chelmsford Street, where the air is full of enthusiastic hammer blows and the more refined whining of a drill or circular saw from numbers 36-42. A cluster of terraces with their corrugated roofs and working-class ghosts are being demolished to make way for nice white town houses with 3 bedrooms and four bathrooms (so hard to keep clean in these dirty times.) I had planned to go for a run with my friend the corporate lawyer but twisted my ankle chasing the neighborhood alley cats out of the back yard and had to cancel. My Prospective Spouse is snoring in bed after his hard week at the office and I'm inclined to wonder what's become of us and if we will suffocate in this cosy domestic corner we have painted ourselves into.
On Thursday we went to see a film at the German film festival about a compulsive rapist and a woman who falls in love with him, with my old schoolfriend Annabell and her philosopher boyfriend Daniel. Miraculously the philosopher didn't develop the headache which generally comes on when it's time to meet with us and so the movie was followed by a midnight stroll down Oxford Street, pass the drag queens and the Thursday clubbers, discussing love and morality, love and rationality, morality and aesthetics (all with reference to compulsive rapists and the women who love them.) Daniel (philosophically qualified to lead such discussions) constructed a disquisition on the topic which proceeded in the seamless style of a public speech or an essay while Annabell tugged his sleeve and looked furtively about for a taxi.
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Tales of blood and deception (interspersed with large amounts of boring autobiography). Read at your peril!
1 comment:
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