Kids, high-pitched, sticky faced, blitzed on jellied sweets and cake, run around the airport lounge. Magazine racks and display cabinets are pulled to the floor and the air rings with nursery rhyme. I am looking through my pockets for Kelly H’s address – I had it once, long ago – I would like to send her a postcard. I empty my pockets onto the bar: bits of paper.
Santiago R stands at the front of his shop. He shouts in Spanish at the rioters. Croydon burns. Elements of the crowd break off from smashing things and begin to form around him and one, a bespectacled woman, translates for them. He is keen to point out the health benefits of veganism.
I am posting leaflets through front doors. They are handwritten and crowded with complex-looking equations and diagrams. The gist of the message is that I have discovered a way to cut hair blindfolded.
[This is an idea that I have toyed with for many years. It could, I’m certain, be achieved…but to what end?]