Wednesday, 26 September 2012

Jah Rastafari


I go up Portobello Road for a quick drawing hit. Kili is drinking and smoking sociably under the Westway.

Kili


I shake my fixative spray too vigorously and the sea-green glass beads of my bracelet scatter. I gather up the ones I find. Gather. Last night I overheard this in the Army and Navy Club:
'Are your parents still alive?'
'No, they're gathered.'






Saturday, 22 September 2012

Rastafari




Overheard outside Tom's Delicatessen:
A: 'I have a yoga class now.'
B: 'Oh, do you go to the Life Centre?'
A: 'No, someone comes to my house.'

B looks as if dashing her brains out against the nearby lamp-post will be the only cure for her humiliation which is going to be life-long.

Clifton aka Kili

I'm in army fatigues searching among the street people for a man without a telephone. Egbert, the St Lucian Rasta, my most reliable and loquacious model. I find him holding court outside a cafe on Portobello Road, all cheekbones and diminutive elegance.

Egbert kisses my hand fervently and calls me empress. I feel like one.

'Wie geht es Ihnen?' says Egbert to Kili.
'Es geht mir gut.'
'Heil Hitler.'
'Sieg Heil.'
'Whatever.'

Egbert
Egbert gets up to go. He whispers in my ear: 'Her name is Doreen. She is short and chunky with bow legs. She is a wonderful cook. She's cooking me fish. One love.'





Saturday, 8 September 2012