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Paris – a book shop


In a few hours I was to return to England. A majestic deeply orange and crimson sunset the night before had prefigured this glorious November day: the sun shone and the sky was high and white and atomic blue. And so the day began.

Years and years ago I had passed in front of the remarkable bookshop that is named ‘Shakespeare and company.’ But I had almost forgotten what it was like so I decided to spend my last hours in Paris walking down to the Seine and re-visiting that special place. I was also searching for a second-hand illustrated book that I had seen in a Paris book stall a few days earlier. I had hesitated to buy it and by the time I had resolved to do so the book had gone. Maybe ‘Shakespeare and company’ would have the book …

There is a wonderful series of monuments that I passed on that splendid day; amongst them was the Musee des Arts et Metiers (full of inventions) and the cloisters of the Lutheran church, the Église des Billettes, and the ‘Centre Beaubourg’ – with its high art and celebration of all the rejections of artistic convention and tradition. There’s the wonderful Tour St. Jacques – and then all the lovely bridges that cross the Seine and the views of Notre Dame – this time from the back.

One of the most attractive features of the Seine is that it lent itself to the eyes of the Impressionists with its huge ripples that are such a pleasure to paint – and its various shades of green or grey or sky blue. If you follow a ripple you get lost in a kind of visual impossibility: nothing stays the same. And just to help the artist, leaves, the colour of raw sienna or Vandyke brown or lemon yellow, still cling to the many trees that line the quays of the river. There was even a huge slow-moving barge that edged into view as I was crossing the bridge. I had to stop and watch its dignified progress. Maybe Marcel Proust had once seen the same barge!

Then I was over and onto the left bank: it’s a nostalgic realm, once a place of the great writers and poets and playwrights and philosophers – all those people who, not so long ago, made Paris the artistic and ‘ideas’ capital of the western world. Their ghosts and echos remain. But now it’s a space for rich Americans and rich Asians – and rich but discreet and elusive French – and droves of alert tourists looking for the paradigm photo. (Oh well.)

I’d forgotten where ‘Shakespeare and company’ actually was; ‘Further on, past a small square and turn to the left and then you’ll see it’, a woman in a bar told me. She was right.

The bookshop is a kind of ‘must see’ and ‘must visit’ if you’re in Paris and wish to enjoy the high points of printing press culture. It’s here that words matter. I loved the place. Outside there were signs telling you which department was where and there was an homage to Walt Whitman quite high up on a wall. Outside, too, there was a small table. with a chess-board top. I sat at the table and my wife took a photo of me. I was looking for a pencil at the time. Nearby there was a small stall selling second-hand books at very reduced prices. Frantz Fanon’s ‘Peau noire masques blancs’ was there. (A propos literature, his observations include the remark “A man who has a language consequently possesses the world expressed and implied by that language.” His more famous remarks concerning the psychological effects of colonisation are devastating.)

Inside there were sections on cinema and poetry and the classics and – well sections on everything really. And there were serious literary types and lots of young students from all over the world who were insouciantly ignoring the signs: ‘No photographs please’.

I couldn’t find the book I was searching for.

But I did find an area with a host of books concerned with the feminist struggle – and I thought that they would serve as a valuable resources to complement the International Day for ‘The Elimination of Violence against Women’ – which is taking place on 25 November. Moreover, I discovered that in various bars and restaurants all over Paris, debates and discussions have been planned to take place all through the night in an attempt to develop theory and practice in relation to the prevention of such violence against women.

It was now half past three in the afternoon. My train would be departing for London from the Gare du Nord in a few hours time. What a shame I could not find that book.


Paris – street life


It’s November in Paris. The first chill winds have turned the air sharp and crystal-clear. I’m staying in the 10th Arrondissement – and very close to the Canal St. Martin. In fact, when I was learning to paint and learning about the history of art I studied a number of artists amongst whom was Alfred Sisley; his works include one or two of the canal itself; and, I can just about discern the building in which I stay in the hazy background of one of them. Nowadays the canal is one of those zones in Paris that is full of hip and semi-bohemian mainly well-heeled youngsters. The old factories and tanneries are long gone. The big fat black cargo barges too. The original Hotel du Nord is still there – and it helps to confer the idea of ‘authenticity’ on its immediate surroundings.

If you were to walk down from the Canal St. Martin to Republique and then on to the beautiful architecture of the Marais you will see many many cafes and restaurants packed with the young, dressed in their up-to-date fashion and glazed with the sheer loveliness of their excited and hopeful faces. There’s all to play for! It’s a great sight and is all about the expression of a post-industrial deeply-mediated culture awash with images and surplus and online ‘communities.’ Ethnically it’s mainly white. And perhaps the most intense expression of this seemingly happy and consumerist culture is found in the Rue Montorgeuil nearby in the 2nd – the 2eme – arrondissement: in November’s early evenings this street is simply a’buzz with the shine of the happy hours – drenched in romance, allure and seduction. To experience it is to be immersed in the western world that has, more or less successfully, been brought into being.

But it’s not all good news; and not so by any means. In fact, if I look down from the windows of the traditional high-ceilinged flat in which I write and paint I can see what looks like a thriving culture of drug-dealing: cars arrive and leave their warning lights flashing; exchanges take place – exchanges that involve a secretive hair salon that functions as a locale and information centre for drugs – and once the deals are done the cars speed off. Sometimes, right under my nose, I can see men preparing various cocktails of drugs in the cars – mainly cigarettes spiked with whatever the dealers are providing.

The woman – she’s a grandmother – who lives above me is increasingly displeased with the unsettling character of the neighbourhood. She’s a tough nut and has even chucked a bucket of water out of the window of her flat and over the ne’er-do-wells – just to show her displeasure. She tells me that the police are not really in a position to do anything because the dealers will simply evade justice and move elsewhere. There are a number of tramps and beggars too – along with some people who are plainly mentally way off the scale: in front of me I see the disposed and the deranged. Sometimes I get the feeling that I’m on the edge of skid row (as the Americans have defined it.)

You have to be rich to escape the realities of our metropolitan world.

It would be easy to become very cynical about the world that is Paris – and, more generally, the world of western towns and cities. The privileged young are plugged-in to pleasure; the marginal are failing by the wayside; the less privileged classes are on the make. Buy in or lose out.

But the city is well-organised and its systems just about hang together; The people who keep the city going – the ‘key workers’ – put up with all the inconveniences, frustrations and difficulties. They put up with rudeness; they put up with relatively low pay. They are remarkable and long-suffering. Amongst them there is a man who has a pretty dismal job. I see him passing by my flat on most days; he’s employed by the city of Paris to do some street-cleaning. His ethnicity is manifestly different from the youngsters in the cafes of the Marais or Rue Montorgeuil. It’s an important job because rubbish bags are left on the street; they get opened and their contents are strewn over the pavements; Why? Well, the very poor search the bags of rubbish for whatever they deem has any value. So the pavements get to be a mess. (Often a vile mess.) Anyway, I was intrigued the other day because the street cleaner did not seem to be focussed on cleaning the streets: he had a long pick-up tool and he was poking this pick-up tool through some railings. Next to him was a woman from an Asian country. She was pointing through the railings. She looked very worried. The street cleaner spent quite a long time as if fishing for something with his pole. And then it became clear what he was fishing for! The Asian woman’s cap had blown off in the swirling winds and disappeared deep down behind the railings. The street cleaner had managed to retrieve it for her. Gaily she put on her silver cap, murmured a few words to the man and went on her way. The man duly returned to his never-ending job of doing his best to keep the streets clean.

I thought about this micro-episode of life and work in Paris. My sense is that the modest virtue of consideration – consideration for others – is diminishing. It’s a fragile virtue but it’s really a great virtue. Nietzsche might disagree and consider such a virtue a part of a ‘slave’ ethics; his critique of our various moral schemes is truly beguiling and his acute perception of humanity’s limitations is something I can neither ignore nor dismiss. However, I do not think that consideration for others necessarily enslaves; instead it reflects our wonderful powers of imagination. And here, in the 10eme arrondissement of Paris, a street cleaner made every effort to help someone retrieve a prized possession. He showed real consideration as well as patience. I think he went beyond the call of duty – and I admire that.

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A short note about loss – Paris, 11 November 2018


It had rained fairly steadily throughout the 11 November. I was in Paris. In the morning I had seen and heard the very large number of blue and black windowless vans passing by, vans that were taking the thousands of security personnel and riot police down towards the places where the commemorations were to take place. Many Heads of State had gathered in Paris to acknowledge the centenary of the ending of the Great War.

The newspapers had forewarned the residents of Paris that around 10,000 troops and police were to be deployed to protect those Heads of State (and their respective entourages of associated dignitaries) from terrorist or other forms of attack. (I rather smiled because I learned later that one or two women who belonged to the feminist group femen had been ‘led away’ – so as not to disconcert or disrupt the proceedings. 100,000 versus 1 or 2 wasn’t much of a contest.)

In the late afternoon I left the flat in which I was staying and walked down to the river Seine. In the late afternoon light on a mid-November day a rain-soaked Paris looked beautiful. The drenched streets and pavements shone with gorgeous lights and the fallen leaves laid intricate bronze and green and yellow patterns that made me feel as if I was in a painting or a magic land. The Seine, too, was alight with reflections. And it was a time to reflect …

I walked away from the quais of the Seine past Chatelet and I looked towards the magnificence of the Hotel de Ville – the ‘city hall’ of Paris. In the wide and open spaces in front of the Hotel de Ville the city had organised a stylish and thoughtful commemoration to lives lost and ruined in the first World War. They had, for example, created flowerbeds – that ranged, from left to right, in blue, then white, then red flowers; the flowers were tiny and the flowerbeds were vast.

And then I looked again at the astonishing achievement that is the Hotel de Ville. And as the suffering and loss of life were being remembered I could not help thinking that the British had made a great mistake in their decision to leave the European Union. I thought this, simply because, as a citizen of the EU, I somehow had a direct ‘share’ or ‘interest in’ or association with the Hotel de Ville – and in fact with all the great achievements that have taken place on the land area that is called Europe. In a strange and curious way I shared in the ownership of the Hotel de Ville and I did not want to lose this unusual sense of ownership.

At that very moment I would have liked all the people of the UK to come and stand where I was standing and I would say: ‘This is part of us. But I think we have failed to grasp our shared ‘ownership’ of such a remarkable cultural achievement. And surely we are lesser for it.’

Then it was the day after the 11 November … and I was one day closer to loss.

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A sign in New York City


Well, this is one way to try and deter thieves.

The sign was stuck up in the window of a New York toy shop. Among other things, the shop had a number of very alluring  and rather splendid remote controlled cars.

A visit to this particular toy shop was featured in the  television programme: ‘Last Chance Lawyer, NYC.’  The criminal defence attorney, Howard Greenberg, who ‘stars’ in this programme, drew our attention to the sign.

I suppose New York does have a rather distinct culture. And, in a sense, this sign is the perfect riposte to the cliche: ‘a picture is worth a thousand words.’ This sign has just six words – and that’s the long and the short of it.

Post script: As the cultural commentator P.J. Villiers remarks, the sign has ‘neither finesse nor irony.’ (But it does have sellotape.)



The trouble with Brexit


The trouble with Brexit  – and with acceding to the so-called ‘will of the people’ to leave the achievements of the European Union – is that it is not really the ‘will of the people’ at all; but worse, it misses the point of knowing something about and valuing our shared history; it also misses the point of the importance of neighbourliness and the delightful phenomenon of charm. (In fact, it misses several points.) As far as I can tell the European Union was born out of a vision, held specifically by two Italian thinkers – and the rubble of the second world war – a vision that translated into words which basically said: ‘Look, we can do better than this’ – and, overall, the result is that ‘we’ really have done better than before. The countries of Europe are doing their best to do well and to fare well. They offer their citizens a great deal; in return, they ask: ‘Please can you play the game?’ (and play it fairly.)

The cultures and societies and political systems that make up Europe are extraordinary achievements. And, it is not true to say that the United Kingdom doesn’t owe Europe ‘anything.’ In fact, it owes almost everything to ideas and examples born and manifested in Europe – from the Greeks, the Romans and the continental Philosophers of the Enlightenment. In the United Kingdom, we – the people – benefit from a culture of dissent – and this culture has its roots in both the heat-haze and the clear skies of the Mediterranean and the salons of the capital cities of Europe.

I am very disappointed that so little regard is given to the history of Europe and the relationship of that history to United Kingdom culture. What particularly disappoints me is the rejection of the framework that unites our friends and colleagues who live, work and think about ‘things’ on the continent of Europe.

I’d like to take one simple example that tells me something valuable – and which is something that anyone can ‘come across’ in Europe. It’s taken from a recent visit to Berlin. In Berlin, not only did I have the wonderful luck to stay in a flat with three young German women who spoke three languages perfectly and who were plainly good people (studying medicine and political science and social psychology respectively) but I also had a good conversation and a great exchange of ideas in a place called Hard Wax.

Here’s an outline of the Hard Wax experience:

Well, I don’t really know much about ‘Techno’ music; but my guide book – the Lonely Planet book on Berlin – included a short reference to a record store at the end of Gotbusser Strasse in Kreuzberg . So I went there. And it was wonderful because even before entering the store I discovered that all-about were workshops and tiny businesses doing good things. In  Hard Wax itself I met a young woman. She helped me navigate through the records and selected ones that someone in England might like. And she took her time doing this. Then we had a discussion about elite art – the kind of art that gets to be shown in exclusive galleries. And I said that I was uneasy about the fact that the elite circuit of art seemed to be full of works that criticised the media and consumption, production and capitalism – but at the very same time this elite establishment and its clients participated in and fed off the very system that the art (apparently) criticised.

I don’t like that,’ I said.

Yes,’ she said, ‘I know what you mean: it’s shit.

But it was the way she said it: serious, long-suffering, aware of the hypocrisy and of the irony. She was studying philosophy and was about to embark on a year of study specialising in aesthetics; so we talked about that, too. And when I said that a philosopher I knew had asserted that the aesthetic dimension is absolutely central to human life and existence and to all our perception – to the fundamentals of our being – she said:

Yeah – but I’m going to have to think about that.’

And I knew that she would.

That’s the kind of lovely exchange that anyone can enjoy as they travel through the cultures of Europe. It’s worth being an engaged participant in those cultures and not just a casual visitor. That – and the promise of peace – is the point of the European Union.




The Art Show


I went to the Art Show. I’ve never seen anything quite like it. The single work occupied the whole of an exhibition room. Among other things it shows how media and technology are literally ‘in your face’.

The Art Show is a very large installation. It was developed between the years 1963 until 1977. Situated within the Berlinische Galerie in Berlin, the curators provide notes which describe this extraordinary work as follows:

‘It is one of the major works by Edward Kienholz and Nancy Reddin Kienholz. Its theme is the opening of an art exhibition in a gallery and it entered the collection of the Berlinische Galerie in 1996. The first ideas for this walk-in scene with ironic qualities were worked out by Edward Kienholz in the United States as early as 1963 and 1967. The realisation of the work is, however, closely connected to Berlin. With a grant from the DAAD (The German Academic Exchange Service) – the husband-and-wife artists spent several months in Berlin from 1973 onward. In 1974 they decided to spend part of each year in Berlin to realise the Art show.

The tableau (in the show) consists of nineteen figures, fourteen collage-like works of art on the theme of casting the bodies for sculptures, furnishing and installing the gallery space – and, installing electrical wiring.

For the figures, the couple molded friends and personalities from the art scene of the 1970s, including their three children. All of the figures wear the clothing of the people modelled. By contrast, their faces are distorted with air conditioning vents and fans from junked cars. They radiate warm air. (!) When visitor press the buttons on the figures, a comment on art by the person depicted is heard with background noise from an art exhibition opening.’

One of the reasons that I like going to contemporary art exhibitions is that, for me, they are often full of surprises. I find myself enjoying the sense of being ‘woken up’ and they demand that I ask the question: What is this about?’ Even if I do try to answer that question I often do not find anything like the answer which the artist intended. However, I rather liked listening to the assertions made by the people depicted in The Art Show. In fact, some of the comments made by these ‘personalities’ were very demanding. One, for example, contrasted ways of thinking in science and philosophy with those of conceptual artists. The former distinguish between theory and practice: theory concerns itself with understanding whilst practice concerns itself with altering or bringing about change in the empirical world. Quite what the latter (the conceptual artists) do is not always clear!

The photographs show some of the figures in the Kienholz’s work that is exhibited in the Berlinsche Galerie. But I have also included a photograph of another work of art on show in plein air (for all to see) near the Brandenburg Gate, Berlin. The plein air figure is deliberately provocative and amusing. He makes people smile. The performance artist also speaks to whomsoever may wish to listen. His assertions were often gnostic and other-worldly.



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Just a Photograph

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But guess where …

Helen and Robert – a play – Act 2 Scenes 2 and 3


The Oxfam shop (again) the one that sells books and records

Helen is re-organising books on shelves. Robert enters the shop. Neither catches sight of each other. Robert goes to the fiction section. He picks up a book. It’s by Angela Carter. He starts thumbing through the pages.

Helen: Well, Hello. What’s cooking?
Robert: Helen High-water… things are simmering – I suppose …
Helen: What’s the book?
Robert: Something for Frankie. I didn’t really know any of this but she was impressed by Ms. Carter – and I read somewhere that Angela Carter was a kind of literary rock-star.
Helen: Oh yes: There’s no one like Angie – she turned the world upside down …
Robert: Frankie told me about the ‘Bloody chamber’ and weirdly it made me think of ‘Blood on the tracks …’ and …
Helen: … writing in blood. And to what do we owe this honour?
Robert: Actually, I’ve come in a) to see you and b) to see you.
Helen: Oooh – and where’s Joleen?
Robert: She’ll be in soon.
Helen: Come on – sit down – I’m all ears
Robert: You’ve got nice ears …
Helen: Flattery gets you nowhere …
Robert: OK. Right, I’m making a few last minute arrangements for the demonstration. You know, I’ve got to admire Petra. She’s stoked up a lot of support for the WAVE thing. She’s even got Dan – Dan the guitar man – to share a platform with her. She’s going to speak and Dan’s going to play – like only Dan can play. Frankie tells me that Petra’s speech is all ‘passion’ – at least I think that’s what she said.
Helen: Don’t worry. I’ve even planned my sandwiches for the day – liberation sandwiches.
Robert: Goodness: That reminds me: D’you know why I couldn’t but support JC – Jeremy Corbyn?
Helen: No – I’m all ‘beautiful’ ears – why did you decide to support JC?
Robert: Well, I was reading an article – I was reading something about the real Labour party – and it was written by a journalist who had found himself travelling about with Jeremy Corbyn. I think it was on the campaign trail or something like that – and the journalist said that Corbyn was fundamentally a good guy – and you could tell that, why?- because he was the sort of person who would be travelling on a train and be happy to share his sandwiches with any fellow traveler. That really stuck in my head.
Helen: To be fair Robert: Mrs May might share her copy of Vogue. Strike a pose.

They pause.

Helen: Vogue versus half a sandwich. No contest. Half a sandwich every time … Right, I’ve been telling everyone about the WAVE and actually it chimes in with combating the dreadful adverse publicity Oxfam had – you know about the aid workers in Haiti – and all that. So, what’s Petra sorted out for us?
Robert: Petra has done Facebook and Instagram and kick-started all the usual social media stuff- and there are hundreds of students – maybe a couple of thousand or more – ready to join the march on Saturday. There are lots of others too. We meet outside Regent’s Park tube. The police are marshalling the show – which is good because there could be trouble.
Helen: Speaking of which – I spy Joleen! And how is Madame?
Joleen: Hello Helen: (They exchange kisses)
Helen: Joleen, so we’re going to reprise Paris ’68.
Joleen: (In a french accent) Good – As long as we do not have to meet the CRS. Even now when I am in France I am scared of the CRS.
Helen: I don’t think the police – the police here – want to take sides – not unless they have to – they’re the biggest gang in town so keep them sweet.
Joleen: You cannot keep the CRS as you say, ‘sweet’. They look at you with fierce eyes.
Helen: Well, this is England – you know – doctrine of minimum force and all that.
Joleen: So, is there no need for a crash helmet?
Helen: No – unless you want to deny everyone the sight of your lovely hair …
Joleen: Thank you. Are we travelling up together? Are you coming with us?
Helen: All things considered, yep. And I’ve corralled a few of our regulars to come too. I’ve even made a small display on women and the struggle; Look, there’s ‘In our own hands’ – I love that book. And, naturally one by your fellow countrywomen: Simone de Beauvoir.
Joleen: I remember that: The second sex. And I remember her ‘Memoirs of a dutiful daughter‘ … I think that I was once a dutiful daughter. I taught the catechism. Robert thinks that I did well to escape the cage…
Helen: So, are you all Ready Steady Go? What’s that in french?
Joleen: On est prêt? and ‘On-y-va …’
Helen: Le jour de gloire est arrivé … Non, je ne regrette rien: That might even be my choice for the I’m stranded-on-a-desert-island thing …

And the scene fades into the sound of a train ride to London …

Act 2, Scene 3:

The beginning of the march. Petra, Frankie, Francesca, Helen, Joleen, Robert and Dan – are all smiles. Dan strikes up some wailing chords. A placard reads: ‘WAVE – from now to eternity

The actors move off stage.

We hear the sound of marching and chanting. We hear a range of songs.

Then: Alarum:

We hear shouts and discern insults and then we hear the sound of rocks striking the ground.
A policewoman stumbles out onto the stage. She clutches her head. She’s been hit in the face.

Policewoman: This is way out of order. My God, am I OK? I need help … But … hang on love …
She catches Petra who is falling backwards.
Rocks and wood from a placard hit the stage.
Petra appears to have been struck on the head.

Policewoman (into her radio): Ambulance – medics quick – there’a woman here in a bad way … Jesus – come immediately – Exact Location: She shouts something technical into her phone. The policewoman puts Petra in the recovery position. Face covered in blood, the policewoman looks directly at the audience.

We hear, in the distance a siren; the sound of the siren intensifies.

Version 2


Helen and Robert – a play – Act 2, Scene 1


A room somewhere in London: Planning for the demo

Petra, Frankie and Francesca are sitting at a table.

Petra: As you know, this is going to be a mix-n-match demo. We’ve teamed up with the Anti-racist groups as well as a load of the ‘I am other’ movements. We get a five minute platform and I’ve outlined a short speech …
Frankie: Yeah! Go Petra!
Petra Thanks Frankie. I’ll give it some welly. But we’ve got to watch our backs. There’s a counter demonstration planned – so things could get nasty.
Frankie: So what are you going to say? Let’s hear it.
Petra: Well, no jokes. Just simple, straight and – well, I hope I don’t get overcome – break down – or whatever; It happened once before – the emotion suddenly kicked-in big time – and got caught in my throat and it all bombed …
Frankie: You’ll be fine.
Petra: So this is the opening:

Sisters and Brothers – Hello – and thank you so much for being here. And thank you for standing up for the W A V E – for this ‘Women Against Violence Event’ and, of course, for ‘Stop Racism’ … We are here to say something very simple, something very basic, something fundamental about justice and the radiance of hope. We are here to say ‘enough is enough’ – that our culture, our society finally has to wake up, to stop accepting the status quo and to show the one thing that really matters – and that one thing is Respect – Respect for women, Respect for difference, Respect for being what we are – and that is HUMAN. In our humanity we are all equal. We are here not to blame, not to berate, not to hang people out to dry but to say: The time has come, at last, at long last – and forever – to stop violence against women, the violence behind closed doors, the casual everyday violence that deforms and ridicules and derogates girls and women. I can quote you a hundred million stats – stats that show how, on every count, women, are still not only second-class citizens – but worse … so I’m here today, we’re here today – to stop the long ordeal of womanhood and to say: You count, We count, All of us count – and we count in our shared humanity and our right for a full, safe and equal life …

Francesca: Wow – that’s amazing Petra – I’m feeling really moved – I feel alive – I’m feeling – Jesus – Christ I don’t know what I’m feeling …
Frankie: Spot on Petra. Stay with it. Go for it.
Petra: There’s more – but are you sure it’s OK?
Frankie: It’s more than OK. It’s about saying it from deep deep down …

(They pause and compose themselves)

Francesca: Look, here are a couple of words – you know slogans – for the banners … And, I’ve been persuading everyone I know to come. Even Dad is coming – along with Mum – Helen is too. Mum is really up for it.
Frankie: Although she’s a bit worried about the fascists – and, you know, she’s always worried about surveillance. And Dad is up for it – he said that Berlin – and the timeline – the year 1933, when the terror really kicked off – well that did it for him. He’s coming too – he’ll even carry a placard!
Petra: So, we’ll be meeting up outside the tube station in Regent’s park and then we’ll trek on down to Traf. Square. And good news: Even the Met. commissioner is making extra police available. I think deep down she’s on our side! The police have advised us not to respond to provocation. The fascists are in the usual nasty mood. So – be warned – and stay safe.

(To be continued)


Helen and Robert – a play – Scene 3


Act 1: Scene 3: The kitchen in Francesca’s flat

Frankie: Hi – Hi Petra …
Petra: Listen up, listen up: What do you call a mythical figure with a big comb-over hair-do who wants to rule the universe?
Frankie: I don’t know: What do you call a mythical figure with a hair-do who wants to rule the universe?
Petra: Trumplestiltskin.
Frankie. Dreadful. Actually that’s not too bad.
Petra: I’ve got another: What do you call a muscular Brexit?
Frankie: I don’t know …
Petra: Flexit. Blimey. Don’t you think that Mrs May is post-modern Thatcher. Da Doo Ron Ron. The Ronettes had great hair-dos …
Francesca: Frankie’s got a question for you.
Frankie: So you’ve got just three things to take on your desert island: just three: a book, a song – a piece of music – and a film. What do you take?
Petra: Serious or silly? The Beano or Proust?
Frankie: Serious – things you actually care about …
Petra: OK, so that rules out Proust but not the Dandy … off the top of my head, Adichie’s ‘Half of a yellow sun’, music? – well Le Tigre and ‘Hot topic’ – can I have something by Patti Smith and the film – I’m going to have to think about that …
Actually, speaking of Adichie I also really and truly like her Americanah. The bits on how to write a good blog were brilliant. My favourite character in ‘Half of …’ was her Kainene. Now that is someone I really do admire. Let’s hope she’s still alive. Right: What’s new?
Frankie: It was art and art only. The question was: What’s the backdrop to the painting. What’s going on – and into the work of art? And so we thought of you ‘cos you announced that you ‘know what is wrong with all things UK but you don’t know how to put it right.’ But you can stuff the question …
Petra: I said that? I don’t remember saying that. Still, the Brexit thing does focus the mind. OK, here goes: There’s this ‘best in the world’ thing that is forever being trotted out. I only got to see that when someone from Portugal actually said that the Brits think they’re ‘the best in the world’ and then I picked up this message over and over again. A kind of uber-feeling – which is good for confidence but bad for harmonies. And this raises my question of the day: So, are you ready for the question of the day? If Freud stood on Nietzsche’s shoulders – was Nietzsche right?
Francesca: Dangerous stuff.
Petra: Time for a joke: What do you call a president who sits on a wall?
Frankie and Francesca in unison: We don’t know … what do you call a president who sits on a wall?
Petra: Trumpty Dumpty.
Frankie: Very good. Very good indeed. Who’s a clever girl? Humpty Dumpty got to make words mean what he wanted them to mean and didn’t Donald say that what he said wasn’t what the word actually meant and that ‘would’ in his case actually meant ‘wouldn’t’?
Petra: Something like that. So that’s another thing swirling about in the ether. What does anything mean? You’ve got to leave things open.

(There is a long pause and then)

Petra: Are you ready for the demonstration?
Francesca: Yes.
Frankie: Sure.
Petra: Francesca – can you do some of your placards?
Francesca: Yep – in a kind of Baroque-less Baroque.
Petra: I like the rock bit… and there maybe a few rocks a’flying …


To be continued – so meanwhile here’s another photo …