The thing about Brighton is that the alternative has long been the mainstream. I haven’t been to Terre a Terre until tonight, but Lou and I went for a blowout and we were the only straight presenting couple in the village. It’s a vegetarian restaurant, or vegan if you like, doing it expressively. It’s been around since 1993, and it’s only just down the road from Lou. We finally partook, and it was mighty fine. I’ll be farting all night.
Morning took us up above The Seven Sisters at Seaford Head, picking between the thistles and the instagrammers. Sun still working hard to stop us having to wear too many layers, wind in disagreement. I put a jacket on. We aren’t in Paris anymore, Toto.
Seaford is an early call for us to visit, not least for the views but also because the coffee van serves excellent coffee and there’s local art sold at fair prices in the gift shop. See how middle aged I have become? There’s a good wood nearby as well. When we were blown out on the cliffs we went and did a circuit in the woods. Cramming in that nature stuff while we can!! Soon it’ll be rehearsing in a little room in Clapham so I want to catch as much green as I can between now and then. I have been receiving emails. One is diversity and inclusion. “What was the main earner in your household doing for work when you were 14?” There’s no category for “Competitive Extreme Sportsman” but you can make your own…
So a day of walking and nature, with a good run of Bergman to get to it. This is why it’s great to have a car, to make it easier to be impulsive and complete in these things. Public transport and it would’ve been the wood or the headland, not both. I’m sad Lou and I haven’t had much time this late summer just to hang together, and with her work and my rehearsals it won’t get easier, but we are good at maximising the time when we get it even if a truly relaxing time together also involves long hours sleeping. It’s ten. She’s already conked out and I’ll be right behind, most likely lifting the counterpane right off the bed with the gaseous results of Terre a Terre. Yummy food, but I’ve been on meat with meat for a month…
Now though I have to cram some words into my brain a moment before sleep…
Seaside morning, and all the tired is still coming out of me. Last night I felt like I had a massive cold suddenly, and inevitably it was full moon and all the pulls and pushes and there was no impetus to write by the time I got into bed because sleep just felt more important.
Yesterday was full but largely peaceful. Being here with Bergman it made sense to go to Lou’s workshop in Ditchling and load up some upholstery and curtains she had made. We drove to her client’s house, up in the hills, glorious and sprawling. We built in some curtains she had made into a little caravan in an orchard and perhaps we both rather wished we had a lovely home in the hills with caravans and orchards. My new handiness upgrade proved mildly helpful. She’s done a lovely job.
Then the day was ours, but with little need to rush around, Lou made a mushroom risotto and we just relaxed until the evening brought the darkness and the moon.
Now I’m waking up, later than I thought I might with my body clock wired to early. I feel battered despite sleep but the day is here in front of us now and it is coming up time to be in it. I’ve been cutting out various touching toxins recently and being a bit more mindful of diet, which probably explains why I’m heavy this morning, but I’ve got lines to learn and Lou to love and life to live. Best get into the day.
Finally woke in my own bed. Got up and made scrambled eggs, hung out with Brian a few hours. Caught up, played games, Sunday morning. An early afternoon power nap and then into Bergman to drive to Oxfordshire. Lou has been at a festival. I was gonna give her a lift home tomorrow, but since I’m in the habit of finding my way past local security, we figured we should enjoy some of the last night together.
I was at this festival in 2020 right at the height of all the COVID madness and somehow they managed to persuade the government to let about 500 hippies come and wobble about in this park. I haven’t been back since, but I was a very happy hippy to have that moment. Local security were worse than I’ve ever known at a festival, as could be expected on that summer of separation. They brought conflict with them that put an edge on what would otherwise have been an unequivocally brilliant summer weekend, one of the lucky few. Lou and I shared Flavia’s bell tent and oh my lord it was freezing cold.
I only caught a few hours tonight, and it was recognisable but very very different. More than ten times the hippies. “This set didn’t exist when we were younger,” says Lou, and yes not on this scale surely… not with this economy. Eight or nine thousand people who have spent upward of £220 to be in a field with no booze for a weekend. Lovely August weekend, mind you. Green Man weekend. When I was working the festival circuit, it was always these August Festivals that carried the magic, when the summer is entrenched at last.
I fit right in to walk past security at the right place. I’d thrown a shawl over a ripped T-shirt, kept on my knackered boots and filthy cargo shorts. I look absolutely exhausted just like everyone else. It’s very much the opposite vibe to the job I’ve just come away from… Loads of drifting people wandering past people talking about. If your basic needs are catered for it’s easier to look towards the luxuries, like self realisation. Loads of these people are minted. But they don’t drink and they’re lovely. Better than the lager lager lager lager shouting mega mega white thing set I hauled myself into adulthood with.
We stayed long enough to be at the front of a kirtan, “Hindu Karaoke,” loads of people singing and breathing and dancing together and a healing thing to be part of even if I wasn’t supposed to be there.
Now it’s past 2am, but we decided to still go back to Lou’s. Roads are quiet on a Sunday and her tent and mattress only really does one. Neither of us fancied a cold and rough night, we are both knackered. So a late night drive instead and now a peaceful sleep by the sea.
It’s nine. I’m in bed. Haven’t unpacked. Ate some dim-sum.
I’m sad to be leaving the warehouse and the crew and the boulevard peripherique and the paris behind. This has been a seriously intensive time, and they’re all still in it. Work sleep work sleep work don’t sleep much
Suddenly I’m home and it’s hot but it’s familiar. I’m in my own bed here in London town. Late summer wind in the trees. I took all pressure off myself to do anything today and now I’m off to sleep early. My clock is wired to early rise now which is no bad thing, and without the necessity of things to do I’m trying it hard to stay awake.
There’s a little pocket of lovely people still working hard in gay Paree. I had to pull out. I’ll miss them. I’ll even miss the work.
To learn a city like that, in a flash, on strange roads with new people… A strange experience. A lost month or so but making space in a team that has borne fruit. I’ll be able to break it down in time, but this evening is for the crash. I’m in bed already, flask by my side, clean sheets, pajamas and a hot bath but not too hot. Washed the dust off, will sleep the work off. Hard work is good for the soul.
Being awake isn’t working. I’ll write when I wake.
Scrambled eggs with Brian and a lovely if brief moment at home. Eleven hours of sleep. I haven’t unpacked or done the washing. That’ll wait until I’m back from Brighton. I’ll be bringing my copy of Othello down there with me. A bit of headshift by the sea. Wonders. Open spaace.
We are in a hotel lobby. He’s not wearing a hard hat and he’s working. We are here to deconstruct six little SEG Frames that someone couldn’t find at the derig. It’s the Hyatt Regency where all the media bods have been sleeping. We don’t need a hard hat to work here. The derig is over. He’s just making it up because he has a hard hat.
“Can I borrow yours?” “No. I have to wear it.” *pause* *longer pause* *longer pause* *he puts it on* *beat*
“What if I tell you I’ve got a hard hat even if I don’t.”
“You have to have a hard hat.”
This isn’t an active site. Nobody is wearing hi-vis. I’ve got one of those in the glove compartment just in case, but I didn’t think to bring a hard hat and they’re not so easy to roll up and stick in a container. I’m so used to the Frankery that it no longer exasperates me though. I’m just gonna find a way through. He has said no, and no is final. There is nothing to be gained from persisting with this human being now. For the French, “no” is a final solution, after which there can be only shrugging.
I try anyway.
“Can we borrow your spare hard hat, there on the floor? And only one of us will work?”
“No, it might be needed.”
“Do you have a hard hat in your store room? Is there a bucket of hard hats to be issued to staff?”
*shrug*
“Because I know where there’s a bucket of hard hats but it’s about an hour’s drive and it would be a waste of time.”
*shrug*
“and it’s not an active site.”
*shrug*
“So why don’t the two of us start work, and you can call your boss. I’m here because he wants these frames gone. Maybe he can find me a hard hat.”
We start work. He gets on his walkie talkie. We stop work as I know someone will come now. He does. A new human, but my last chance.
“Good morning chef, thank you for taking the time to help me.” (They’re suckers for protocol, the French. And the boss always likes to be the acknowledged as the boss.) “We have been asked to remove the little frames and have come to take them apart. In the knowledge that this isn’t an active site, would it be acceptable to you if we worked without protective clothing. The other option would be to carry them individually down the stairs and deconstruct in the street, but I asked your fine colleague here to ask you if it might be possible just as it is a quick job for myself and my colleague to do it here. We won’t be touching the scaffolding. Just these little light frames that are in your way.” He’s about five foot tall. He’s not wearing a hat or hi-vis and he knows it. He looks up at me, looks across to Fi, looks back at me. I take off my hat. My expression is serious. He nods once, curtly. “This is okay. Go ahead.” He then instructs our friend from earlier that it’s ok and we can do our fecking job. Hooray etc. We get to deconstruct frames.
So we take the things apart on the marble floor. Stage one complete. Then I push my luck.
“Chef, thank you so much for your understanding earlier, we have nearly finished but I wonder if you might have a chariot we could employ in order to transport these items downstairs in the lift.” “No chariot. It is no chariot throughout the whole building.” “So you have no chariots in this _hotel?” I just feather the word hotel.”Yes sir we have no chariots in this _hotel but for the chariots of the guests.” “Ah there are chariots of the guests, perhaps there is a possibility I might be able to employ a chariot of the guests?” “Absolutely no possibility. The chariots of the guests are of the guests, mister, you are not a guest so you cannot employ the chariots.” It’s another no, and another dead end, and I know it. I don’t want him following me around so I am maintaining the appearance of humble politeness. “I understand you very well chef.”
I go down in the lift to the basement, borrow a pallet truck that’s right in front of me when I get out of the lift, put a pallet on the chariot and trundle it back up to the marble floor. Chef is gone so we put all the frames onto the pallet and I fight them into the goods lift while Ffion gets the van past more bemused French people and into the hotel basement.
I’m sharing the interaction in fine detail because it is so typical of my general working days here. It’s why I’ve often been fuming at the end of them, sometimes too tired to see the humour. It’s easy unless you start to assume it’ll be easy. As soon as you expect it to be easy they make it hard on purpose.
This was my last day. Fi has the hat now. I expect she’s already cleaned out the vans. I’m writing in the morning because Mel, Fi and I went for dinner in Montmartre after work and when I went home I fell asleep immediately.
I live in an oven. It’s my own fault, booking the place on price alone. It’s on a street with loads of roadworks and the price is reduced because you can’t park anywhere near it. I hauled my van up under a streetlight outside a business in a place that feels as if it is in nobody’s way. I went up after work and had a sweet sweet shower. Then I did something I haven’t done much. I took time for me.
I’ve heard of the Folies Bergère. I haven’t really been out in Paris having been here ages. I’m about to go home. I booked two tickets for whatever the hell is on at the Folies.
What do I know about the Folies? It has been breaking ground on the international cabaret stage for decades. It has hosted a number of world performance firsts. The firsts aren’t along the lines of “The first play by then Coxforth university student Micvid Bogharefrago took place in the gardens here, organised by his parents, paid for by his godfather who is now his agent”. No, this is mad cabaret. They have been pushing convention because that’s why they exist, and where better to be “ooh la la” than in Paris. I got my right nipple signed by the hostess. I sat and felt part of some truly athletic cabaret, often carrying great mischief and great meaning – unlike my signed nipple which has no meaning but fun.
excuse belly. it was worse a month ago
When I persuaded F, neither of us knew it was gonna be Fantasma Circus Erotica, but it was, and I got the MC to sign me because the whole evening was a delight and a sharpie isn’t a tattoo and fuck it sometimes I’m allowed to stop.
Great to have a few hours not just down but random. We had hoops, we had a boy tempted by the devil through his laptop, we had Olympic locker room naughtiness, we had girls and cars, we ran through lots of kinks and all of it happy and open and free. A great way to culturise my second last night, so I can say Paris was more than just roads, security guards and a warehouse. Sexy dancing from wonderful performers. They’re in such shape. Could’ve been Olympians but instead they dance for money and I get it, it’s a vocation.
What’s their day job? To touch on mine, I went to INV today and security were lovely. Diligent, correct, but lovely. It was a perfect finish. I’m gone soon, and Mike on the inside is brilliant. I’ve had good experiences at the problem venues now and I’ve shared plenty of info with Fi about logistics areas and so forth. Finally. I can rest soon and I will.
I just stumbled on the most partisan article I’ve seen for a while about the Olympics. In The Independent.
This is a newspaper that tried to set itself up as being free from influence. Long gone. It was bought over a decade ago by the owner of the London Evening Standard, one of the shoutiest and most entitled local rags we have. I’ll still read it, but it is monster.
It makes me very interested, as always, about who controls the narrative and why. I’m totally stoked that all these teams of hard working humans I’m working alongside at this event pissed each other off so royally for so long because they all wanted their thing to go well. But I’m stoked because it DID go well, despite fuckery. P24 never really understood how accreditation was supposed to work, so it was madness for me to expect them to know it when I asked them. Asking them how accreditation works and how you get it is like asking a kid at school if you can join their gang and what you have to do. “Yeah you need the um … the green SAP form but it isn’t called a SAP cos mum told me it’s different but NAH NAH YOUR OLD FORM DON’T WORK NO MORE STUPID ha ha ha blerrrgh I’m a major security firm for a big event woowoowoo this is my siren. You’ve got to go eat an earthworm and then you can be in my gang if you have your passport in your pocket and you can breakdance and now it’s called a UTF but tomorrow it’ll be called a Para something and I DON’T UNDERSTAND MY GANG HELP ME I’M LOST mother mother is that you I’m going home so nah nah get your own gang mister yes you can use my den.”
I had to fight to get into a venue with my Olympic accreditation that came slowly and with a background check and why? Because now they want a transitional pass that is much less secure, and after that they will want a para pass that the security lads all had already bless them but we won’t have a sniff of them until they open the accreditation boxes again. It’s the fuckedest system in Christendom.
The road passes are a hot mess. But the games have worked alongside them and the armies of cops and gendarmes. None of them have a fucking clue what the system is because, frankly, the system is a disaster. It is held together with toffee tape. You get ten different opinions every ten foot. They didn’t implement anything properly and nobody is feeding information down the chain. Every different venue it’s random. INV is the worst now by a country mile. Now I’m pulling out, it’s hilarious.
But anyway, yeah, there’s a surprising amount of noise in the press from the kids who hate “woke”. I’ve never really understood why freedom of personal expression is considered so dangerous and offensive to them. I think they were triggered by something in the opening ceremony which I didn’t see. Maybe Bacchus? I know there was some consternation there. Now they’re crying about a female boxer and some nepo academic attempting left-brain breakdance for some mad reason. She’s been swept up in the culture war because her PHD has the word “gender” in the title and there are lots of people who just go to Grendel when they hear talk of gender.
It’s all so tedious, but I’ve got “right wing” friends for whom “disgusted” is a state of being rather than someone in Tunbridge Wells. They are so upset about Imane Khelif. I see an incredible journey where a girl is born with hormonal fuckery and rather than that being the thing that holds her back the family are like “yes, you’re being teased at school for being a big girl but how about you use what you’ve got and BE the big girl and spark those whining Italian sub-bullies out?!” “She’s a man,” say the AWwwww kids who have never experienced much beyond their frame and the fact they’ve set themselves up against something they don’t understand. Cos IT’S NOT ME AND IT’S NOT WHAT I GREW UP WITH SO IT’S WRONG. Kids have always annoyed me. It’s worse when they’re in their thirties, forties, fifties, but I think the internet has rung the bell for closing time for long form thinking… It’s easy for people with view to see that the shouty narrative is not the truth. But no is easier than yes, even if it’s less interesting. This culture war Grendelerises gender. We can’t talk about it without fearing attack from a nebulous monster.
As I’ve written in the past, I’m largely just gobsmacked that the Parisians and our team pulled the games off and it was incredible and took in all the land marks. It sang, despite the noises from the No-woks.
It still seems impossible even though it literally happened. Paris Paras now. Oh lord. The commentary is fascinating. I love the Yusuf Dikec memes as he is just a brilliant accidental character and bears it well. I’m worried for the RayGunn thing. If she was mocking competitive breakdance then she’s a douche. If she thought she was the best qualified person to do it for her country then she’s delusional. If she wanted to change the way it is judged she chose the wrong manner and stage. I’m not on the ground there, so I don’t know if she’s conceited or not in person. I’m hoping she is conceited, as if she somehow arrived at what she did without overactive intellect and negativity, if she openly misjudged things then that’s what happened and let’s stop being nasty. It’s hard to not see it as some kind of intellectual statement though… Intellect has no home in breakdance. It’s a freedom thing and it’s not my territory at all – or hers if she can’t do it.
As for Khelif, she did well and I bet that the anger from how all the nowoks were treating her just added weight to her punches. I had a personal trainer once, at the start of my career. At the time it had only been about four years without a single audition for a major theatre. I would punch harder when he encouraged me with “all the theatre casting directors that haven’t seen you!” I felt my privilege was working against me so I tried to flatten my vowels for years until I just stepped up and accepted that that’s my background. It’s hard to be entirely comfortable with what you are, as you can only fully see other people, but I’m happy that this woman who has likely had to put up with mockery her whole life has hit a peak and made a huge achievement for herself despite it all.
It has been trying to break, this weather, but without much success. Grey skies and spots of rain but the promised storm did not come and as I write I’m sitting outside my local cheap Nepalese place having just failed to consume even half of my food because I’m just too knackered to eat and it’s still hot even though the sun has set.
It could be worse. Nena works alone in a shipping container at La Chappelle, and for the last month it has been an oven. Now she’s done something to her leg, and went to the doctor. They’ve been creative and generous with their painkillers in a way that surprised me. There’s horse tranquilliser there, and opium, and muscle relaxant. She shouldn’t feel anything after that lot. I’d be dead to the world for a week. Right now though it hasn’t touched the sides for her. 3% less.
I’m just feeling slow and with tender knees. I’m lucky my body is playing nicely with me. This job has strangely helped my fitness. Once I remembered Wendy Allnutt’s guidance and stopped leaping like a gazelle from the loading bay because I could, my knees stopped hurting so much from repetitive stress and I think my body is largely responding well to regular careful physical work in the heat. Wendy helped me get used to chasing tension. Thanks to her and now Lou, this weird body of mine with its inverse vertebra and pronations can stay loose under pressure. It’ll be going from being a tiny cog in the biggest event in the world to being a tiny cog in the biggest Shakespeare company in the world.
So … I’m continuing my usual me thing for now. And it’s glorious. And knowing I’m about to stop means I can push through.
The venues are no longer high security so I can drive into the compounds again. There’s still all sorts of hijinks at the gate but largely today I was able to drive right to the containers and access them once the supervisor explained that accreditation was better than a SAP. Luxury.
I really regret that I can’t see this event to the finish, but this was always going to happen. Still, it feels wasteful now I’ve built relationships with people and developed an understanding of their needs. I can get the DEF things to where Herless needs without him having to move. I can get into the LCO lockup and continue to enjoy my french interactions with nicotup even if I’ve never met him personally. He got the late night jonk under the Olympic flame. He’s the only French install manager who makes jokes in french with me but it’s because he’s seen me get the job done no matter what. I took the metro with his fifteen metre thing when the roads were closed for a race. Nena, too, knows I can get things where she needs them. Ditto Scott and Meh at CDM. Sean and Mike now know I’m gonna make fucking certain they actually want the thing because as often as not they just don’t and their security are universally shite. Although I had to send that gazebo…
Marcus and Tamara things are easier now and their venues don’t have asshole security. Unlike Stephane where I had to wait for him even with all the right passes on foot. Everyone loves Pawel. Some of his security are bullshit but largely a well informed lot. Alex and Alexis and Luc – all very French and good humoured. Not very forthcoming about showing me their logistics area at the start, but for my next big event like this I know exactly what sort of questions I’ll be asking in the first week. I need to practically know all the areas I can know, and do it early before it gets hectic. I was trying though, even back with Roadkill and Bob I knew it would be better to get into the complex while security was low and learn it, so I could operate more efficiently when security stepped up. Just a few days ago Michel saw the effect of me hitting a venue without knowing where the logistics area was at BCY. He plugged in with me to be helpful when his real intention was to catch a bit of cheeky basketball. He saw how I’m often caught in the middle with one hand not talking to the other, and was so good as to halve a load I had been very much not enjoying carrying. We stood around for ages just to wait for someone to take us through a door we both knew we would need to go through. Had we gone there without an escort someone would have panicked. But … this is the game I’ve been playing. Appear as lawful as possible, and keep an eye on the workarounds. I now know too late where the BCY storage area is, although Fernando never responded to any of my messages and still hasn’t given me the code so even when I’m gone, Fi will not have enough information for an efficient drop.
But… these people, these venues, this madness… I’ve been smashing this and the worst of it is past. But for the fact I’ve been pissed off with obstructive fuckwits, I’m happy. My last few days will be more about the warehouse than the venues though – so much stuff is coming back, but not enough consumables. Thieves. Atrocious. We lost so much stuff at the closing ceremony for the flag poles, and we will need it all again, and it was hard enough to source the first time…
But bed is here again, so hot despite 2 fans… Ahhh summer though. I love thee.
Everywhere I look, it’s roadworks. I’ve moved again. The last place had no cooling fans, but this place has got two. They just move the warm air around but it’s better than doing nothing. I’ve left them running all day while I’ve been at work. Contributing to the heat that the fans are preventing. Textbook hypocrisy. But last night I woke up every twenty minutes from sweaty dreams of ovens.
Everything has started to come back to the warehouse. Signs and scrim make up the bulk. The tool boxes are coming back pillaged. “If these were your own tools you would be making sure they aren’t lost,” says K on a WhatsApp group and he’s right. I got an empty Erbauer box back from a drill we had bought just a week ago. Nothing but a charger in it.
The good people of Paris will have tools for years to come on us and I don’t like it… Although it smacks more of carelessness than intent. There’s a nice box that’s been left. Both batteries gone but charger left in place, so Detective Barclay can clearly deduce that whoever was using it ran out of charge on their first battery and returned to the box. From thence, they removed the second battery, but neglected to put the first battery on charge. Then when the second battery ran out they asked for a second drill, which we QR coded and covered with stickers. The second drill came back with all the bits. The first drill? Left by the side of a road I reckon. “C’est cassé.” These guys throw away their Stanley Knife when the blade blunts, even though it’s reversible and they all contain three spare blades. These drills come with two batteries and a charger just so you can swap and charge and keep working. They’re the ones I used on the set break for Wolf of Wall Street. I ran my battery out every 2 hours or so, by which time my spare had charged. We were driving out damp rusted screws from a mushroom basement. I came to love that tool. So I know why they might have been nicked, but if they have it’s disappointing. We aren’t volunteering here. But… well yeah I guess lots of people are. Maybe they want the drills, and more power to them I guess if they’re broke. Still it’s disappointing.
I’ve finally worked out what the different shirts mean and I’m glad that the green volunteers have frequently been the people who have helped unclog tricky security. I like them. Worst case their coordinator comes and breaks the stalemate in a jaunty blue shirt. But this makes me much more pleasantly disposed towards these people who have always been very well meaning but strangely slow. They have largely contributed positively, as they are trying to represent the games which have been a ray of light. And they have been HELPING!
How did it all work out? I’m still astonished. We pulled an Olympic games off in the city centre of one of the busiest cities in the world. They said it couldn’t be done.
It hasn’t been gridlock. It has all gone very very well and I love that I’ve somehow got stuck into something new. I’ve got good at forklift now thanks to the occasional comment from those who learnt in the same way I have – and how else does one learn in all truth? More upskilling in handy type things just before I go and make art again as an artist. The two sides are aligning gradually. Make the event, be the event, make it, be it. Still separate but maybe not for so much longer. Soon I’ll be able to marry the skillsets, join up the dots, make a thing loads of people are in. I have largely been leery of it as self-producers are largely unskilled in one of the two sides, and more frequently both, and I’m not interesting in people who are about themselves in the art. But it feels like this is the art in me and it is where I’m being pushed by the massive energies we’ve been deciphering. It’s not clear yet how it what it erg it matak but what but it’s gonna be is fun finding out. It’s a triangle making things. Point of the triangle, covered. Right brain side of the triangle, covered. Left brain… The office. Production. Excel spreadsheets. Not me. This won’t happen alone.
Practical head right now though.
We just unloaded a whole van full of timber that had been loaded up this morning because SPA want 4×4 and we only have 2×4 and they would rather have no timber than the wrong timber. Sure they could’ve made it work even if it would’ve involved Fi and I buying every fucking 100 – 120mm screw in Paris again, but they’ve had time to restock since we did it for TRO. You’d be amazed what happens if you screw two 2×4 timbers together. You have a 4×4!! Some people just have to find problems instead of solutions. Chapeau once again to Wyn, the noticeable Welshman at TRO. I don’t just want him on my pub quiz team now, I’ll buy him a beer when this is over. Solutions man.
SPA sent it back because they want something we haven’t got and by the time we’ve got it and sent it they could have worked around it. Silly buggers. We will solve it or we won’t. I’ll be there to see how, or I won’t. Vans of wood don’t happen by magic, kids. They’ve made a problem for themselves down the line. I’m halfway out the door so I’m not gonna be the one solving it when they discover that life isn’t always handed to you on a plate, and that work involves work. Still, the show will go on.
“You might want to wear gants touching this bache,” says the driver. “It’s covered in merde.” He’s got a van of material, and he’s pulling on his gloves as he speaks. I hold my torn hands up. “I get shit all over these every day,” I assure him. “Let’s just get this done.” He looks at me strangely, turns to open the boot, pauses and looks back. “No, actual merde,” he says, and it opens and we both take two steps back as the initial bouquet is released from the van. Chateau Merde, the finest vintage. I thought he was using the word to mean dirt, but no. Oh no. Something has taken place with this bache. Someone , or multiple people… And not just merde. “I definitely don’t get that sort of merde on my hands every day. I need gloves.”
It’s a hot day. He’s brought it with him all the way from Quai D’Orsay. I don’t know how it got like that, but “It’s contaminated,” says D and he’s right. It all gets rolled out onto a big pallet and next I know I’m lifting it up and tilting it into a skip that is conveniently empty as we have been so extremely diligent about recycling and processing everything that comes in. The wind is blowing towards me as D knocks it off the pallet with a big tube of cardboard and nobody will be drying this load and cutting the rings off it.
The heat is quite something, pounding down daily, hard work to stay hydrated even before all the lifting. I’m getting through litres and litres of pineapple juice and innocent smoothies and the occasional vimto, not to mention water after water, but I still feel I’m completely wrung out. I got Fi to snap me with my favourite weed here, just by the warehouse, a real survivor in the roadwork city we are condemned to live in. I don’t quite recognise myself, cooked brown, skinnier than oft, grey beard too big and grey. One thing we did get in Paris is summer.
What a weed
Now I’m in my new Airbnb. I booked it by price and it is cheap because of major roadworks just outside. Fifth floor though and there’s a washing machine so I’ll be able to prepare for pulling out and returning to the things of home for a wee while ahead of a very different adventure of the mind and body. It’s been lovely sharing time and work with Ali, but he’s back now and gone untill I’m gone. No need to stay in the big apartment we had, and besides there were no fans. This place has two and I’m shamelessly going to run them all night long.
It’s quarter past nine. My feet are facing the sunset through the window. There’s very very little wakey left in me today so the noise of the fans will be soothing as I drift away.
AlBarclay 