Parka, hood-up. Limping ever so slightly. One arms swings and the other’s thrust in a pocket and, maybe, it doesn’t move. Maybe that arms stays there. Because the limp doesn’t start in their leg, it’s not in their tread, it sort of starts somewhere in their left shoulder. A falling forwards that breaks stride just a fraction. Slows them down just a bit. And maybe that’s why that right arm has such a swing, such momentum, pulling them around the path in a gentle arc towards the car park.
Red curly hair. Extremely pale skin. Accent somewhere north of Sydney. Huge Christmas jumper, largely navy, and a gingerbread cottage covered in snow.
She’s chatting to an older woman, leaning in and animated with it, but they don’t seem especially familiar. Little gaps open up at the end of stories, and neither really seems to want to fill them. Conversations loop around someone who isn’t there – may never be there – and the pauses are really for them.
Tweed overcoat, pinstripe suit, extremely tidy hair. Leather shoes. Black holdall – maybe new, certainly clean – black gloves peeking from a pocket.
Partial attention. Blackberry, colleague, coffee, travel papers, opinions, cafe-goers, traffic, weather, the best place for his teaspoon, the amount of milk in his cup. An eloquent motion between each point, always moving just a little bit.
By contrast his colleague is fixed on him. She hasn’t taken her coat off by the time his cup is empty.
An embarrassed slide onto the bar stool. He shrugs his coat off to reveal a bright red jumper decked in Santas. It glows at his colleagues.
Just-cut hair, neat moustache. The latter is waxed into a curl and he fingers it lightly between sips.
The chat bubbles as cocktails clink onto the counter. Every so often the four of them gather around a palm – a phone – and hack laughs at the blue glow, before returning to their stools and tall glasses.
Polyester trousers. Thinning hair dyed a ruddy red, some greys where it’s growing out.
She takes advantage of the train’s heating to put her coat down. The t-shirt is a mottled collection of greys, crinkled and distorted, a layer of thermals visible under the neckline and just poking from her sleeves. It looks extremely snug and comfortable.
It’s the posture that does it though. Relaxed. Eased back into two seats, bags and legs filling all the space they can. The confidence of decades.
Balding, fleece top, leaning forwards, drawn and dozy. The hum of the train heating and the clomp of the tracks make his eyelids heavy.
But his son wants him – stuck on a word – and gets his attention. It takes a moment for him to focus, palming his jawbone and blinking hard. He appears to ask his son softly to repeat the question, before fingering the page and talking him through the word and the context.
I can’t parse the Danish, and the susurrance makes me drowsy.
Brown leather boots, straight-leg jeans, red jacket puffed with fleece and sporting black elastic hems and cuffs. There’s a black scarf stuffed in the top. The whole ensemble looks terribly snug.
He has one hand on the counter, the other at his thigh. His left leg’s holding him up while the right is tucked up and around, toe to the floor, swaying out of time. His eyes, when he turns, are icy.
People who wear red jackets and blue jeans always make me think of Clark Kent.
Walking boots, festive tights, ribbed black dress, black-rim glasses, red-dyed hair elegantly fading. She looks peaceful dozing, face to the aisle. The warm air recycles around the cabin, accompanied by a soporific hum.
For a while after coming too she winces. She’s chewing gum hard and rubbing her ear to ease the pressure. Short hops always hurt – lots of pressure and no time to recover.
She reaches for her boyfriend over the aisle, saving a smile for when their fingers clasp.
Suit trousers, blue shirt, green overcoat and largely he’s talking about the e-passport gates because it’s all he wants to talk about. And he does. He’s on a fold-down seat over a heater by the loos and down the phone he’s telling someone – it could be anyone – about the e-passport gates and every user of those gates. And it could be anyone he’s telling because his talky dispassion is such that maybe the e-passport gates stole his ability to emote and also it could be anyone because all he wants to do is talk about
Black t-shirt, black cargo trousers, blue apron, an enormous knife. He’s sharpening it over the bin, trays of lettuce and peppers cling-film covered and ready to stow for morning. He’s got this wide smile on his face and round cheeks that soften the shink-c-shink-c-shink of the blade and steel.
When he turns his glasses catch the lamp and his face beams out over the counter. His voice pours out slow when he natters to customers, and though his humour’s fast it’s never sore.
White jumper, pressed black trousers over leather boots. She leans into the laptop and peers close at the symbols on grey. Her typing is super-fluid. She’s switching screens fast – replying, chatting, searching for snippets – the tippy-tappy is automatic.
But the coding is new... new and steep. Tab, refresh, tab, type, tab, refresh, tab, save – pointing at the screen and wondering at the assistant where she ought to go next.
Cargo trousers, white t-shirt, grey hoodie with wide white drawstrings. Elbow on desk, head in hand, leaning into an office chair and thumbing a phone. He’s all uncomfortable angles.
His mouth is slightly open as he browses, and squinting against light or tiny type. He’s got half an ear to the speaker as the music plays, but when the voices come back on its got all his attention.
When the adults around rope him into conversation he acts like someone older.
It’s a snapshot, and I miss it at first, but as the train rounds the bend I see; Big Ben glittering in the sun.
The outline’s sharp against blue, and the sun’s low enough that there don’t seem to be any shadows on the eastern or southern faces. The adornments and metals reflect the light in all directions, and the effect is one of twinkling.
The smell of whoppers and Fosters on board conspire to make the view outside less real, and the slow tracking of the train around brings to mind every helicopter shot of this city ever filmed.
A squat four-storey, the ground floor largely walkways. First to third are one-floor flats with just enough balcony to reveal...
...a table and two chairs ...a clothes rack with a yellow jumper, a pink vest and a pair of jeans ...boarded-up windows ...multi-coloured curtains and low, white pots for shrubs ...a deckchair and something tall under tarpaulin ...something, I can’t see – there’s a tree in the way ...a neat workbench ...a collection of fulsome plants, bursting out of window boxes ...a tent and bicycle ...tall, lush bushes ...nothing – a totally bare spot about six by four by seven ...a white wooden table and an empty plant pot
Modern block, largely angles, windows dark enough to mask what’s inside – maybe offices, maybe flats, maybe both – but downstairs is easy; a bold and bright Cinema sign, trimmed by little white bulbs rounds the corner of the block.
Posters cut-up quotes and slogans to sell second-run and rep. reels while a line builds to watch a seasonal classic.
On the overhang in huge black letters: MERRY CHRISTMAS YA FILTHY ANIMALS.
October 2014 | November 2014 | December 2014
Temple Studios | January 2015 | February 2015
March 2015 | April 2015 | May 2015
June 2016 | July 2016 | August 2016