Some folk just seem to skim coolly above most of us don't they? They float noiselessly between their past and their future triumphs. As they pass they give a regal nod at us mudlarks scrambling for pennies and scrabbling to pick up the shopping that has just fallen on the supermarket floor when our eternal shopping bag handle fell short of eternity. (Is this whole everlasting carrier bag lark just a way to get folk back to the idea of FAITH. Some of these churchy guys are pretty sharp at psychology). Anyway - back to the mud. Last night I went to a piano recital at one of my neighbour's château. YES - that's right - OK - My neighbour has a château and I went to a recital. Now - In France I am foreign, therefore I am neither posh-oui nor posh-non. In England I could go to such an event but I would have to keep me gob shut cos one squeak of the old Sahff Lundin vowels would have me sent to the kitchens to put me uniform on. However, sometimes you come across a cool dude who just has to be admired. The recital was given by the superb Alice Rosset. She is a native of Charente Maritime and the region is rightly proud of her. She played Bach, Bartok, Rachmaninoff and Brahms. She was fantastic. I had not heard much Bartok before - I think it's for very sophisticated folk who put their clothes on back to front and walk backwards in order to understand the shadows cast by the future on the fleeting present of appearance and expectation. SEE - I could be ARTY. Anyway - there she is playing this beautiful music and the 2140 hours to Bordeaux rattles past. Was she fazed? Non! She just played on. The girl's a trouper and she walked on the stone driveway of the château with no shoes. If her everlasting carrier bag broke she'd just lift the shopping off the floor with a twitch of her eyebrow. Bravo!!
Now, the above ramble reminds me of some advice I received in bed from a very cynical guy. He told me that you could never beat the English class system - but you could merely side step it. You can never quite get the vowels and arrogance of the posh Anglo. So - be foreign. At first I thought he was joking but this guy used to take me to receptions and the like at places like embassies and the Foreign and Come on it's all my wealth Office. There was no way I could pull off the My Fair Lady Act, so I went accent-uh-sexi-rissima. I don't know what they thought - but no one asked me what school I'd been to or if I had been at the races when The Right Honourable Foreskin - Smythe had won the golden fleece.
Hair dryer humid wind here today. It's a greenhouse of bursting juice. If you fell dead to the soil here you would decay in seconds among the worms and eat-you-pedes of NATURE. Life is sweet juice. The market will close with strangers hosing away to gutters whatever is left of what you nearly became....
Emma thinx: Drink deep the juice. In the hour glass is sand.