today's
Times.
I shrink in my chair. I know he will see it, see my picture, and he will swing his head in slow motion toward me and fix me
with his beady, foxlike stare.
"I don't care," says Pierre,
I chant in my head.
But I will let you fold the folding chair! "I don't care!" says Pierre.
I will show that man I don't care. I am Pierre!
A desperate situation has arisen: I am out of wine. There is nothing left for me in this world. I look pleadingly at the bar, behind which the French barmaid stands, ignoring me as if she were an elegant cat. Two men enter the bar. Shit! More knees to navigate in my path to the bar. Everyone's shirt pleases me: they are all superbly ironed and have excellent cuffs. Eventually I manage to stand. I take deep, calming breaths. I take my wineglass and tiptoe up to the bar and point to the bottle of burgundy I like. In mortal shame, I lower my head as the barmaid pours me a glass. I want to tell her I am sorry I don't speak French. I feel horrible about it. She puts the bottle back and I crawl away like the bug that I am. I crawl up the leg of my chair, carefully balancing my fine crystal wineglass in my hand. I crawl across the seat. I crawl up the arm of the chair and sit perched there. I am a millipede. Elegantly, fooling everyone, I cross my million legs and sip my wine.
I am outside and lost. I hunch over, pulling my black wings over my shoulders. I stay close to the buildings. I duck around corners, searching. There is a crepe stand around here somewhere, and I shall find it. I put my head in my hands and lean my back against a stone wall. I note the puddles running off into the gutter. I take a deep breath and
carry on, old chap, buck up, old chum, tallyho, sally forth,
and I continue skulking through the narrow alleyways of London. There is one safe place; that place is the crepe stand. There they do not humiliate me as they do in the other places.
I am in a square. There are people all around, and thousands of pigeons. Mary Poppins!
"Feed the birds, tuppence a bag! Tuppence, TUPPENCE, TUPPENCE A BAG!"
I may have shouted it aloud. I have been walking through the square for years, never getting closer to the other side. Perhaps it is Trafalgar? Where is Trafalgar?
Where is my bloody crepe stand?
Where they give me
a ham and cheese crepe and don't ask any questions and leave me to huddle into my plate, keeping an eye out for the watchers? My mother went to London once, and brought me the Mary Poppins hat when she returned. There is a picture of me holding an umbrella and wearing a fine little blue wool suit and my Mary Poppins hat. I am grinning my horrible grin. I hate the child. She is hideous. Her blue wool suit fit poorly. See someone about it.
Trafalgar becomes Knightsbridge,
Excuse me, where am I?
Ire-main very polite so nobody knows. Occasionally I stop in a bar to refuel. The wine in London is highly satisfactory. If they knew who I was, they'd hasten to help me. But I dare not disclose myself. I cover my mouth with my hand, and demur. Piccadilly Circus, Mayfair, Harrods! Heavenly Harrods! The excellent people, the fine, fine people there! I make many purchases. I trot through London, hailing cabs, carrying my packages,
Where to, Miss?
Take me to the theater! No,
take me to my hotel,
and I recite the name and street number, which I have written down on the back of the business card of a literary critic with whom I recently had dinner, and behaved spectacularly well, and got hilariously bombed. I mutter my way up the stairs of my little hotel, my black thing over my head.
I am on the phone to my agent, sobbing, pacing,
I'm lost, I'm lost, I can't find the crepe stand, what am I going to do? I can't go out like this
—I have fleeting moments of clarity during which I realize I am not doing well, and moments of abject terror as I pace around the hotel room, crying my head off.
Then the escort comes and drives me off to the BBC for radio interviews. I comport myself appropriately.
Times.
I shrink in my chair. I know he will see it, see my picture, and he will swing his head in slow motion toward me and fix me
with his beady, foxlike stare.
"I don't care," says Pierre,
I chant in my head.
But I will let you fold the folding chair! "I don't care!" says Pierre.
I will show that man I don't care. I am Pierre!
A desperate situation has arisen: I am out of wine. There is nothing left for me in this world. I look pleadingly at the bar, behind which the French barmaid stands, ignoring me as if she were an elegant cat. Two men enter the bar. Shit! More knees to navigate in my path to the bar. Everyone's shirt pleases me: they are all superbly ironed and have excellent cuffs. Eventually I manage to stand. I take deep, calming breaths. I take my wineglass and tiptoe up to the bar and point to the bottle of burgundy I like. In mortal shame, I lower my head as the barmaid pours me a glass. I want to tell her I am sorry I don't speak French. I feel horrible about it. She puts the bottle back and I crawl away like the bug that I am. I crawl up the leg of my chair, carefully balancing my fine crystal wineglass in my hand. I crawl across the seat. I crawl up the arm of the chair and sit perched there. I am a millipede. Elegantly, fooling everyone, I cross my million legs and sip my wine.
I am outside and lost. I hunch over, pulling my black wings over my shoulders. I stay close to the buildings. I duck around corners, searching. There is a crepe stand around here somewhere, and I shall find it. I put my head in my hands and lean my back against a stone wall. I note the puddles running off into the gutter. I take a deep breath and
carry on, old chap, buck up, old chum, tallyho, sally forth,
and I continue skulking through the narrow alleyways of London. There is one safe place; that place is the crepe stand. There they do not humiliate me as they do in the other places.
I am in a square. There are people all around, and thousands of pigeons. Mary Poppins!
"Feed the birds, tuppence a bag! Tuppence, TUPPENCE, TUPPENCE A BAG!"
I may have shouted it aloud. I have been walking through the square for years, never getting closer to the other side. Perhaps it is Trafalgar? Where is Trafalgar?
Where is my bloody crepe stand?
Where they give me
a ham and cheese crepe and don't ask any questions and leave me to huddle into my plate, keeping an eye out for the watchers? My mother went to London once, and brought me the Mary Poppins hat when she returned. There is a picture of me holding an umbrella and wearing a fine little blue wool suit and my Mary Poppins hat. I am grinning my horrible grin. I hate the child. She is hideous. Her blue wool suit fit poorly. See someone about it.
Trafalgar becomes Knightsbridge,
Excuse me, where am I?
Ire-main very polite so nobody knows. Occasionally I stop in a bar to refuel. The wine in London is highly satisfactory. If they knew who I was, they'd hasten to help me. But I dare not disclose myself. I cover my mouth with my hand, and demur. Piccadilly Circus, Mayfair, Harrods! Heavenly Harrods! The excellent people, the fine, fine people there! I make many purchases. I trot through London, hailing cabs, carrying my packages,
Where to, Miss?
Take me to the theater! No,
take me to my hotel,
and I recite the name and street number, which I have written down on the back of the business card of a literary critic with whom I recently had dinner, and behaved spectacularly well, and got hilariously bombed. I mutter my way up the stairs of my little hotel, my black thing over my head.
I am on the phone to my agent, sobbing, pacing,
I'm lost, I'm lost, I can't find the crepe stand, what am I going to do? I can't go out like this
—I have fleeting moments of clarity during which I realize I am not doing well, and moments of abject terror as I pace around the hotel room, crying my head off.
Then the escort comes and drives me off to the BBC for radio interviews. I comport myself appropriately.
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