chocolate?’ asks Ruby.
‘I am scared of the werewolves. Yesterday they almost trapped me at the bus stop.’
‘Right. You better just wait till daylight.’
Ruby is surrounded by bits of paper and magazines and seems pleased with herself.
‘Maybe I could risk the shops anyway. Do you have any money?’
‘No. But we’ll be rich after our contact article rocks the nation. I’ve sorted out the ads to reply to. Here’s your bundle.’
There are about fifteen, mostly from sex magazines, a few from other things with contact columns. I read them.
BEAUTIFUL THIRTY-FIVE-YEAR-OLD RED-HAIRED WOMAN SEEKS YOUNGER MAN, PREFERABLY ARTISTIC AND ATHLETIC. MUST BE SEXUALLY SUBSERVIENT.
SINCERE GUY, FORTYISH, SEEKS YOUNG FRIEND FOR MUTUALLY SATISFYING FRIENDSHIP. INTERESTED IN DISCIPLINE.
OLDER GUY, GOT BOOKS, MAGS, VIDEOS, SEEKS SLIMYOUNG GUY FOR TRAINING. ACCOMMODATION NO PROBLEM.
MOTHERLY FEMALE, FORTY-THREE, INTERESTED IN FLOWERS, MYTHOLOGY AND DISCIPLINE, LOOKING FOR YOUNG MALE FRIEND IN NEED OF LOVE, AFFECTION AND CORRECTIVE TRAINING.
MUSCULAR GUY, INTO BODYBUILDING AND WALKS IN THE COUNTRY, SEEKS SINCERE YOUNG FRIEND TO EXPLORE THE WORLD OF SUBMISSION – PHYSICAL, MENTAL AND PSYCHOLOGICAL. ALL LETTERS ANSWERED.
‘Do you notice anything about your ads?’ asks Ruby.
‘No.’
‘Right. I’ll help you write some replies. Go and get those photos you had taken last year when you weren’t looking such a shambles as you are now.’
Still hungry, I go out to rehearse with Nigel. He tells me our drummer has left the band to go to acting school instead. We will have to postpone our gig again.
‘I wanted to play my new song to Cis.’
Nigel has brought his drum-machine so we can rehearse on our own. It is a small drum-machine, an out-of-date model that cost him thirty pounds from the second-hand shop. All it does really is keep a beat. Compared to some drummers, however, this is not too bad.
We are rehearsing in a makeshift room downstairs in a squat that we rent for four hours at a time. The microphones will not stay on the stands so we have to tape them in place and sometimes the amplifiers stop working, but it is convenient and very cheap.
I get on well with Nigel. If we could find a drummer we would be a good band. No one would care if we were a good band and, playing the sort of gigs we would get, no one would ever hear us. But we would still be a good band.
Rehearsing is fun sometimes. Putting your guitar up full and thrashing it takes your mind off everything else and there is always the thought that today’s rehearsals might be tomorrow’s big success. And sitting round on rickety old chairs in a shabby rehearsal room smoking cigarettes between playing is fun as well.
Carrying my guitar home through Brixton is a little worrying. If someone stole it off me I could not afford another one. I like my guitar. It is a Burns, an unusual old British make. Actually it looks better than it sounds, but it has a nice aura.
Walking home I carry on a conversation with Cis in my head.
‘It’s cold tonight. Can you feel the drizzle? We can cut through this road here. It’s quicker. Yes it is, really.’
I imagine her smiling, willing to go along with my shortcut although she doesn’t really believe in it.
These imaginary conversations go on all the time.
I have the sudden inspiration of calling on Cis and telling her I’m locked out. She will be sympathetic about this and let me sleep on her couch, or rather her mother’s couch, as that is where she is living just now. Her mother answers the door and refuses to let me in and tells me not to come back. I head on home and cut through the little park, past some trees.
Ruby is standing beside a tree. Her feet must be cold in the damp grass, unless they have become immune to all feeling.
‘What are you doing, Ruby?’
‘I’m seeing what it is like to be a tree.’
I stand beside her for a while. Nothing much happens.
‘I think this is a little
‘I am scared of the werewolves. Yesterday they almost trapped me at the bus stop.’
‘Right. You better just wait till daylight.’
Ruby is surrounded by bits of paper and magazines and seems pleased with herself.
‘Maybe I could risk the shops anyway. Do you have any money?’
‘No. But we’ll be rich after our contact article rocks the nation. I’ve sorted out the ads to reply to. Here’s your bundle.’
There are about fifteen, mostly from sex magazines, a few from other things with contact columns. I read them.
BEAUTIFUL THIRTY-FIVE-YEAR-OLD RED-HAIRED WOMAN SEEKS YOUNGER MAN, PREFERABLY ARTISTIC AND ATHLETIC. MUST BE SEXUALLY SUBSERVIENT.
SINCERE GUY, FORTYISH, SEEKS YOUNG FRIEND FOR MUTUALLY SATISFYING FRIENDSHIP. INTERESTED IN DISCIPLINE.
OLDER GUY, GOT BOOKS, MAGS, VIDEOS, SEEKS SLIMYOUNG GUY FOR TRAINING. ACCOMMODATION NO PROBLEM.
MOTHERLY FEMALE, FORTY-THREE, INTERESTED IN FLOWERS, MYTHOLOGY AND DISCIPLINE, LOOKING FOR YOUNG MALE FRIEND IN NEED OF LOVE, AFFECTION AND CORRECTIVE TRAINING.
MUSCULAR GUY, INTO BODYBUILDING AND WALKS IN THE COUNTRY, SEEKS SINCERE YOUNG FRIEND TO EXPLORE THE WORLD OF SUBMISSION – PHYSICAL, MENTAL AND PSYCHOLOGICAL. ALL LETTERS ANSWERED.
‘Do you notice anything about your ads?’ asks Ruby.
‘No.’
‘Right. I’ll help you write some replies. Go and get those photos you had taken last year when you weren’t looking such a shambles as you are now.’
Still hungry, I go out to rehearse with Nigel. He tells me our drummer has left the band to go to acting school instead. We will have to postpone our gig again.
‘I wanted to play my new song to Cis.’
Nigel has brought his drum-machine so we can rehearse on our own. It is a small drum-machine, an out-of-date model that cost him thirty pounds from the second-hand shop. All it does really is keep a beat. Compared to some drummers, however, this is not too bad.
We are rehearsing in a makeshift room downstairs in a squat that we rent for four hours at a time. The microphones will not stay on the stands so we have to tape them in place and sometimes the amplifiers stop working, but it is convenient and very cheap.
I get on well with Nigel. If we could find a drummer we would be a good band. No one would care if we were a good band and, playing the sort of gigs we would get, no one would ever hear us. But we would still be a good band.
Rehearsing is fun sometimes. Putting your guitar up full and thrashing it takes your mind off everything else and there is always the thought that today’s rehearsals might be tomorrow’s big success. And sitting round on rickety old chairs in a shabby rehearsal room smoking cigarettes between playing is fun as well.
Carrying my guitar home through Brixton is a little worrying. If someone stole it off me I could not afford another one. I like my guitar. It is a Burns, an unusual old British make. Actually it looks better than it sounds, but it has a nice aura.
Walking home I carry on a conversation with Cis in my head.
‘It’s cold tonight. Can you feel the drizzle? We can cut through this road here. It’s quicker. Yes it is, really.’
I imagine her smiling, willing to go along with my shortcut although she doesn’t really believe in it.
These imaginary conversations go on all the time.
I have the sudden inspiration of calling on Cis and telling her I’m locked out. She will be sympathetic about this and let me sleep on her couch, or rather her mother’s couch, as that is where she is living just now. Her mother answers the door and refuses to let me in and tells me not to come back. I head on home and cut through the little park, past some trees.
Ruby is standing beside a tree. Her feet must be cold in the damp grass, unless they have become immune to all feeling.
‘What are you doing, Ruby?’
‘I’m seeing what it is like to be a tree.’
I stand beside her for a while. Nothing much happens.
‘I think this is a little
Similar Books
