Tuesday, 22 December 2009
Note on tesknota to follow, but for now...
Too late back from the emerald city of Norwich, where son, daughter and son-in-law were gathered. From there to a bar/cafe called The Workshop which looks like something out of Paris or Amsterdam in about 1972. I say this in full approval. In any case it is full of young things, or youngish things, and a screen in the downstairs back room is showing Au Bout de Souffle on a loop so Jean Seberg's beautiful face comes round again and again (I was one of many millions who fell in love with her, then fell in love with any girl who looked even vaguely like her), and Jean-Paul Belmondo keeps stroking his lips, Humphrey Bogart fashion. Meanwhile I notice there is some truly execrable poetry in the dialogue, probably just execrably translated. The Workshop serves pizzas that barely fit through the door, so the five of us share one, then have another half by way of afters. Downed with Guinness.
That is why I am sleepy now. All significance remains on hold.