Summer Here Is Over

Late afternoon. My thoughts have already arrived at the weekend, but physically I'm still somewhere between work and home. All day long winter has cunningly been sneaking its way into the world, sending forth its vanguards in the form of the occasional snow shower, but now it strikes with all its vigour. It's not the vulgar, heavy snowfall that pours down on you like goose feathers from a ripped cushion, but the kind of mild and foggy, mischievous drizzle that just won't stop, slowly but surely dowsing everything in a milky haze.

Snow ploughs, taken by surprise, drowsily pave their way through narrow streets. The dissonance of steel grinding on asphalt insults my ears. I turn on the radio, but Katy Perry's voice turns out to be an even bigger insult. I switch to CD and Justin Currie tells me he hates the world they gave him.

Trees eerily fade into view, street lamps try to radiate light, while snow comfortably settles on everything, suffocating the last remnants of summer. Cars plough through streets like flat irons glide through linen sheets. The convoy crawls forward at sleep-inducing speed. It is a funeral march. Cars with muted taillights, heads bent and shoulders hanging, mourn the loss of summer. The brass band plays "Nearer My God To Thee" and everything sounds slightly off key.

We come to a halt and I start to wonder if home will ever be an option today. I glance at the fuel gauge and it tells me not to worry. Traffic lights in the distance turn from red to green. The procession hesitantly moves on. All is good. I can almost see the shore from here.

What's The Story Morning Glory ...

In an attempt to outsmart morning traffic I get up earlier than usual - a plan I have been trying to perfect for years. It hardly ever pays off, yet I keep trying. Positive thinking. Stubborness. Stupidity. Take your pick.

The morning is hesitant and veiled in grey. Sounds are muffled. Colours are muted. Hints become shilouettes become people. Their breath, coming from mouths and nostrils, manifests in tiny clouds above their heads. It makes them look like steaming dragons. I turn up my collar and try to escape the chill by walking faster than I normally would. I get to the car and swap the cold outside with the cold inside. "You can leave your hat on" ... "woolly hat", in my case. Traffic is tolerable. The beast still slumbers and soon the city disappears behind me in the mist.

The sky clears up and there is a hint of pink on the horizon. I take a different route today. Here the streets are completely empty. White frost covers naked fields, left and right. Beyond the fields to my left a moving mass of headlights glances over from the nearby main road. The convoy ploughs through the landscape like a huge, fluorescent caterpillar. A dead rabbit lies in the middle of the road. The winner of this race turned out to be the lorry. It shouldn't have dawdled. Crows peck at its tattered carcass and are only briefly disturbed by my passing by.

I remove my woolly hat - a thing of rare beauty - while the radio and the aircon battle over audio supremacy. I turn up the latter, because the news are bleak and I like it warm. Driving towards the day I witness the most spectacular November sunrise. I stop and take a picture. The outcome is a pale reflection of reality and bears testament to why I should never even think about picking photography as a profession ...

Sunday Morning Coming Down

I wake up far too early. Wave after wave of busy noises are coming from the apartment below. Clattering of pots, pans and plates. Doors are repeatedly slammed shut, only to be instantly opened again. Lumbering footsteps pace through rooms - Sunday breakfast in high heels.

I pull back the curtains and stare out of the window. A thick, grey blanket of clouds presses down on the leafless trees, the spires, and the rooftops of the city. The mood outside complements the mood inside. The morning, or what is left of it, is dominated by getting rid of a mild hangover.

BBC4 talks about the pope, condoms and male prostitutes. Squeeze's "Tempted" makes itself a home somewhere in my temporal lobe. It has no intention of leaving and I haven't got the slightest objection.

Lunch is sparse - deliberately so. The rest of the early afternoon is spent aimlessly flicking through the channels.

An hour later I get up and decide to get active - idleness has had its chance. The sky is still grey as I saunter across the empty streets. Old, majestic buildings on both sides of the street form a tunnel that might well take me to a time long gone. It is surprisingly mild, but only few pedestrians cross my path. There is the elderly couple, bickering about their shopping list; a young, foreign looking chap in baggy trousers, determined not to notice me while he walks past; a group of pensioners are giving me their warmest smiles as I walk past them. Their lively chatter bounces off the walls and cheerily echoes through the street.

I bump into an old friend and he invites me to his new apartment. It is old and spacious and delicately furnished. Nooks and alcoves and round arches compete with wide and open spaces. The place is the perfect melange between penthouse and medieval castle. I am hugely impressed. We talk a while and decide to meet up next weekend for a drink and a longer chat. I bid him farewell and make my way home to my suddenly so small and shabby abode. However, there is neither need nor time to ponder. The evening waits and it is filled with plans ...

In The Air Tonight

The time for cheap excuses is over. Once and for all. A thing of the past. From now on I can write blog posts whenever I want, wherever I want and however I want. Even in the nude. Not that I will, mind you. I am just saying that I *could*.

In the café next door, while staring at my half-empty cup of Latte Macchiato. At the toilet, instead of reading the newspaper. On the bus, the train, the plane, or the automobile. In a lorry (if I knew someone who owns a lorry, that is), in the office (when there is no work, of course), in between hors d'œuvre and main course, while sitting on the rooftop and waiting for the snow, or ... as in this case ... quite boringly and *just because I can*, right next to my desktop computer.

HAH! Isn't life great? Limitless possibilities. The world is my own, personal oyster. I feel privileged and special.

However, do not expect an increase in blog posts. It won't necessarily happen. Certainly not *just because I can* ........

This Side of the Morning ...

Monday morning establishes itself with frightening determination. The sun is fighting a brave but fruitless battle against a persistent blanket of fog, smothering the city like pink candy floss. Cars wake from their sleep and start clogging up streets. Waste bins are waiting to be emptied. The cash machine makes a short, rattling noise, while the fountain in the square remains silent. A bus howls past my open window and the fog turns from pink to grey, as the sun finally surrenders.

I meander down the road, passing an elderly lady walking her dog. Both don't look too happy. The city is still half asleep, but more awake than I am. I get into my car and join the many, lonely commuters in the daily race to their workplace. I snuggle up in my tiny bubble made of steel, plastic and glass. One person per car. Too many cars per planet. Shit streams from the radio. Rihanna's music is heinous and always will be.

Streets are wet and traffic presents itself in a muted colour palette. Taillights glare in angry reds, breaking up monotony, while lorries huff and puff uphill. No doubt they are laden to the brim with essential goods for the gentle consumer. Cherries from Chile. Garlic from China. Apples from South Africa. Potatoes from Egypt. Welcome to a globalised world! I wonder if what they get from us in return adds up in the end ...

Before The Evening Steals The Afternoon

Vienna, November 8 - Justin Currie

He plays for half an hour. Short but sweet. Like the hint of a kiss from your mistress' lips. A glimpse at perfection. You take all you can get, but long for more, and while the brief traces of Ambrosia dry far too quickly on your lips, they leave you fully satisfied, while you still wish the door could have been left open a little longer. But there will always be another time.