It's My Party (I'll Make You Cry When I Want To)

Coming Home.

At last. That wretched three is gone. That ugly number that has haunted me for a decade. That pain in the arse that made others believe I was in my prime, while in truth I was curling up to die inside. That shameless liar always telling me I was invincible, immune to it all and ever-lasting, it has finally left ... never to return.

I shall not mourn its loss. I shall welcome the four, my new-found friend, shall frolick in the dying gardens of my mind, embrace decay, revel in finitude and observe the world with even more watchful eyes, as it keeps on passing me by, faster and faster.

Already my new age seems to be showing. A mischievous cold has snuck up from behind and made a home inside of me. It doesn't look like it wants to leave too soon. I sneeze and cough, wrap myself up in a blanket and blankly stare at the telly, while I hold on to a cuppa and nibble on some Paracetamol, like we old geezers always do. A pot of chicken soup simmers on the stove, its smell is almost a physical presence, as it lingers dominantly in the room.

I crave for a breeze to stir up the staleness inside and open the window. The air is clear and razor sharp. I look up to the hill, where the horizon meets the old, beaten cemetery wall. The sky lingers above and threatens in a deep steel-grey. A cold, sharp wind tears on gnarly branches of mighty trees, their leaves proudly displaying autumn's colourful palette of ravishing reds and yearning yellows. There is beauty in slow death after all. I can smell the coming snow, while the biting wind lashes out against my face.

In the distance a couple is walking their dog - or is the dog walking the couple? I cannot quite tell, but the animal oozes proudness and character and gives its masters a hard time. I leave them to it, close the window and return to my blanket. 

I take another dose of Paracetamol and glance at the watch. Only two more hours before getting ready for the party. No big deal, the glam outfit will stay in the wardrobe tonight. Just the closest of friends, a few glasses of wine and a dinner at a time where others enjoy the early evening programme. There will not be a band. There will not be drugs. There will certainly not be showgirls.

That's how we old geezers like to celebrate: everything happens not at all or early, except for lunch. You better get used to it.

Until You Cried

There is so much on my mind

As I lay here by your side

How could I ever be so blind

And let you slide?

Was it me you tried to find?

Find a way inside my mind?

I left and locked me up inside

Until you cried

Until you cried

I know how many times you tried

To walk together side by side

I always let you fall behind

Until you cried

Could there have ever been a way?

If I would turn back time

Would it still work out the same?

And while I watch you as you lay

I see the tracks of all your tears

Have all dried up and now I know

It's all too late

There's just one thing on my mind

As we lay here side by side

And while you lock me out inside

I watch you slide

I watch you slide.


Do not laugh too hard. It is only my first and only a sketch. The ghost of the song it will eventually become. If you insist on listening to this melancholic, sentimental dribble, I won't stop you. Just press play right below the photo of the torture equipment. A warning to the curious, though - headphones are strongly recommended, unless you also want to mentally scar  everyone within earshot.

The tools of a torturer.

Removed due to claims of audiophile harassment

Friday Street

The sky is a brooding, miserable mess, its moods swinging to and fro, from the sulking of a spoiled child to the hysterical weeping of a professional wailer. A thick, heavy blanket of grey clouds hangs low and looms above, pressing down on ducked, intimidated buildings and wet, overcrowded streets filled with an endless line of crawling cars. Glowing headlights after glowing headlights creeping through the pouring rain - a bleak procession that stretches across the intersection and beyond the horizon. It slowly parades past me like a giant line of drowning fairy lights, while I torpidly wait to plunge into the lion's den that is Friday afternoon shopping.

The traffic lights turn green. It is my signal to join the monotonous convoy that moves at a funereal pace. The sky turns from weeping to sulking, and back to weeping. Windscreen wipers are confused.

Galaxies die until I pull up to the car park of the shopping centre looming up ahead. I slowly weave through a trickling stream of stressed-out predators, hurriedly pushing their hunted prey towards their readied getaway cars. Their brimful shopping trolleys rattle noisily on wet asphalt, as they maneuver around the incoming, the searchers, the slow, the preoccupied and the I-don't-give-a-fucks. 

I manage to find a parking space on the far end of the place, turn off the engine and soak in the silence and the solitude, revel in it for a brief moment, while the rain pounds on the car roof in a rhythm I cannot follow. I get out and hurry to open my umbrella. I have grown beyond the years when it was uncool to carry one and much cooler to get soaked to the skin instead. For the fraction of a second I feel a little old. 

The rain continues to drum its rhythm on the brolly's canopy, as I hurry towards the shop that lures with its treacherous, warm light, its huge, illuminated logo and a store front completely made of glass. Huge billboards scream special offers in your face. Neck relax cushions are on sale today. Buy because they're cheap, not because you need.

Inside, there is no surprise. It is survival of the fittest, with the whole ensemble already present: there's the doddery, the impatient, the undecided. The stressed, the nigglers, the pushers. The cheaters, the stupid, the prepotent and the generally miserable. A smorgasbord of human misery. 

Chubby, middle-aged women with varicose veins the size of leeches become wild, unpredictable beasts. Old, scrawny men with no hair turn into bloodthirsty predators. Young mothers become lionesses, while they hunt for things to feed to their children. They skulk around overburdened shelves like scavengers around carrion, lashing forward, ripping out big chunks from the rotting carcass. They plunder and they ravage, they push the old and weak aside, they shove you out of their way and frantically fill their trolleys with goods like there is no tomorrow. Furies at work.

I warily move through the aisles, while I gather the little I need, pushing aside brimful, abandoned shopping trolleys, weaving through bickering couples and miserable spinsters, turkish families with armies of children and obese men with black, greasy hair. Now and again the sickening smell of stale sweat insults my nostrils. An unpleasant chill emanates from a row of chest freezers, while they hum a monotonous tune in perfect unison, as I make my way towards the checkout counter, where a pale, pony-tailed girl with a blank, expressionless face moves an endless line of items past a scanner, that beeps agreeingly every time she does so.

Her eyes are tired, her mood is hidden under thick layers of frustration, her moves are monotone and machine-like. She doesn't look up once, not even as I pay. 'Hello', 'Thank You' and 'Good-Bye' sound hollow, thin and rehearsed. Coming from an automaton, not a human being. I have no time for sympathies and neither has she, so I take my stuff and leave her in her misery. After all, I have my own miseries to drown. And as I leave I can hear her hum the same tune as the chest freezers. In perfect unison.

Drowned On Dry Land

These days I look like a ghost. A spindly, translucent figure that silently floats through cobblestoned alleys, haunting the early morning hours of a still slumbering town. Now and again I stumble across my own reflection, a shadow of a shadow, trapped inside a side mirror, a darkened window pane, an abandoned shop window. I squint and stare into a pale face with sunken cheeks, a gaunt, lost figure with hanging shoulders in an oversized coat, aimlessly meandering through wet, misty streets.

At the top of the hill I pause and soak in the city that stretches beyond the horizon. Down below the lanterns ooze a pale, orange glow, as I perceive the world through a cloudy, suffocating haze. Vision is blurry and sounds and sights are muffled, like they have been for weeks. A stray snowflake melts  and dies, as it settles on my shoulder. 

Reluctantly the town awakens as I steadily make my way towards wherever my road takes me. A battered, orange lorry slowly crawls up the road, collecting stuff people didn't think worthy of keeping. Around the corner a single mom is being dragged to the bus-stop by her two kids.

I stop and look at what I know I'll never have. I look at what I know I'll never be. I look at what I know I'll never want to become. Yet I desperately hold on to the petty remains of all that is familiar, while my world slowly crumbles to pieces. Feathers come cheap, while birds are nowhere to be seen. All that remains are memories from a time when everything was safe.

I cross the wooden bridge, its planks all soaked and slippery from sleet. The river's a thick, brown soup beneath my feet, carrying faded plastic bags and torn-up love letters to their uncertain grave. 

Fastened to the railing, numerous padlocks hold on to the painted iron structure in a desperate embrace. 'P+D', 'E♡K', and 'G+J 4EVR' - scribbled in shaky, clumsy letters on their brassy surface. A naive token of eternal love, fastened to what must seem to be forever to a teenagers' heart.

In the unforgiving daylight their love and their tokens are as flimsy as the bridge itself, ready to be washed away by the first flood of spring. In other news, Easter's a dud.

Pocket Revolution

A chill January wind descends upon town like a horde of mad, pillaging vikings, taking roofs, roads, towers, nooks and crannies completely by surprise, violently lashing thick and heavy raindrops against my exposed face. 

I turn up my collar and dig my chin deep into the fabric of my scarf, while the rain continues to pound on an unsheltered world, sparing no-one and nothing. It hammers against the thick, protective bark of groaning, disarranged trees and drums on colourful car roofs, bursting into tiny, glittering fragments on impact.

I quicken my pace and gaze into a dreary, weeping sky, where nature's diorama crowds layers of rolling hills, each one in different shades of blue-ish greys, against a snowy white horizon.

A short, stout woman dressed in a woollen sea of flapping beige coughs past me, sneezing noisily into a crumpled paper handkerchief. A moustached policeman struggles out of his patrol car and strides across the cobblestone road. The smell of coffee-to-go wafts over from his paper cup. An elderly, pale, skinny man wrestles with a mischievous gust of wind over the possession of a black, battered umbrella. Man versus nature. For a change, man prevails.

Below my feet the dirty, brown soup that is the river writhes and burrows through town like a blind, lumbering worm. An overweight, soaked-through nordic walker wheezes past me, already regretting his new year's eve resolution. While he slowly fades from the corner of my eye, I walk past a wall covered with fifteen year old graffiti. 

I stare at the faded colours and the broken letters and pity the same old paroles, the same old swearwords, unchanged for more than a decade, and wonder: doesn't this generation have anything to say anymore? Is rebellion smothered by glaring walls of music, painted with tiny headphones and even tinier iPods, or are the mouse click and the HD-screen the new brush and canvas of revolution? 

I stop for a brief moment and listen, but there is no answer, as the spirit of the rebellious youth remains silent. 

Out Of My Control

Outside, darkness chokes town in a tightening grip of ever decreasing circles, as December chills cling to every wall and crawl into every corner; while snot freezes on the Beagle's nose; while pigeon feathers splinter in the freezing cold; while ice cubes clatter loudly down the road. Pity the lack of snow.

Inside, the fading evening is illuminated by the heavy, warm embrace of the soothing, orange-yellow-ish glow of dying candles, as it sends calming, ever-so-comforting ripples across the stillness of my sea of eternal numbness. Pity the lack of a storm.

And as the bottle steadily empties, the future looks - for the fraction of a fleeting moment - brighter than ever, while I watch it slip through my fingers and fade away like the last chord of a lover's lament. Pity the lack of love.

And through the shielding glass of the window, I stare down into dark alleyways, where predators with slicked-back hair ostentatiously pound their puffed out chests and chase their eager, mini-skirted prey, while the White Rabbit stares at me with bulging, begging, blood-shot eyes. It checks its watch and shrieks "Don't dawdle! There is no time!", and impatiently pulls my sleeve.

And while the predators victoriously dance around their hunted prey, I wonder whatever happened to the faithful soul, whatever happened to constancy, whatever happened to the things we vowed to do? 

Should I smoke this cigarette while I watch you bleed? Should I join the hunt or lay down to die? Should I let it pass and ask myself what could have been?

"Relax.", says the Hookah-Smoking Caterpillar. "It'll all be fine. There's still plenty of time ..."

Box Of Rain

'Stay hungry. Stay foolish.'

Steven Paul Jobs passed away on October 5, 2011. He was 56 years old.

Thank you for giving us the future. You'll be missed.

Image used with kind permission from Wired.com.

Summer In The City

This year's May ultimately unmasks last year's August as the deceptive and shamelessly lying crook it turned out to be.

While the ones' name promised joys of summer, making merry in the greenest of meadows and frolicking in the sun, it let the heavens pour at leisure instead, sucking all the colour from the sky, crowning weary mountain tops with unwanted caps of snow, reintroducing cardigans to an audience dying for the tiniest leftovers from a memory of warm and sunlit childhood summer afternoons.

The other - proud, loud and self-assured in the glistening sunlight - is far ahead of its time, blinds you with over-exposed imagery, belies its ancestral place and mocks the changing of the seasons with its overheated temperament, wanting to be top dog in a summer yet to come.

I look down on crooked rooftops as they simmer in the brightly burning afternoon sun. The heat parades triumphantly through streets, leans on terraces, lingers on squares, and invades the most private, hidden corners of the city.

Dehydrated tourists stagger aimlessly through winding cobblestone alleys like drugged lab rats through a maze. Water spills from a bottle and evaporates before it hits the ground. Steve McQueen completely loses his cool. A pigeon lights up like a match as it lands on the hot tin roof. I scatter its ashes across the concrete below, while a premature summer laughs in the rotting face of winter's corpse.

"Shadows Grew Into Giants And Died As The Sun Burned Orange And Sank."

It is the only sentence taking root in the mind. The rest is blurry, out of focus, as both brain and eyes are distracted far too easily from the excellence that is the text they should adore:

The ant that scuttles along the farthest corner of the eye. The wave of cheerful laughter wafting over from the Bistro across the street. The young, stout, arse-wiggling girl with the overblown makeup of a parisian drag-queen. The roaring noise of passing cars that always seem to come in threes. The brief moments of silence in between it all.

I take a sip from my cup of coffee. It has been sitting in the glaring sunlight for almost half an hour. It is nearly cold. A mosquito sits on the saucer. It flaps its wings, feeling its way on the unfamiliar surface like a blind man, slipping, falling, landing on its back, struggling back on its feet, performing the strangest dance on its porcelain stage.

A cyclist approaches and gracefully parks his bike alongside the hedge that borders the beergarden. The way he flounces across to the tables exposes him as the show-off he is. He takes a seat at the table next to mine. In his attire he looks like a member of a SWAT team, a fireman from a future where they don't read books anymore, but burn them instead. I firmly hold on to my novel, as for a split-second I expect him to produce a flamethrower. It turns out to be just a lighter. As if to belie his outfit and his athletic build he orders a pint and lights up a fag.

The cyclist uninvitedly introduces himself as Heinz and throws sentences over to my table. I smile and nod occasionally, resort to the briefest possible replies, while still trying to read. It is in vein, as the verbal bombardment increases.

While still trying to remain polite I decide I've had enough. I look at the sky, then at my watch, and pretend to realise how late it has become. Swiftly I drink up and pay.

I apologise to my newfound, unintended friend and make an exit, as shadows grow into giants and die, as the sun burns orange and sinks.

Funeral Spring

The sky is an orgy of grey and blue and yellow, as I drive into a busy Saturday morning. The streets are bustling with cars of all makes, shapes and colours. Like little baby spiders they scattle out from under every stone, out of every hole, rushing frantically through the madness that is morning traffic, changing lanes like a crazy murderer on the run from an overzealous law enforcer.

I shut out the insanity around me and turn up the volume of the car stereo. Roky Erickson's "True Love Cast Out All Evil" provides the perfect soundtrack, as I leave the city behind and follow the straight, vulgar, invading grey line cut into the gentle beauty of the rural landscape, which is already showing signs of spring's zenith.

All the fields of rape have already turned from bright and even plains that blind the eye with colourful, yellow monotony into a checkered mess of darkish green and dying yellow. Adjourning fields, then brown, exposed and naked in the glaring sunlight, are now covered by a silky blanket of pallish, swaying green. Trees with branches groaning under the weight of clusters of white and pink now lounge in gentle green, while the remnants of their colourful dresses lie rotting in the sprouting grass.

Sunlight bounces off the windscreen and the sky changes colour yet again, as impressions of an ageing spring make way for the return of civilisation. In the distance, six broad and busy ribbons made of asphalt, each one speckled with tiny dots of colour rushing to and from its circular centre, meet to form a star, as I take the lane that gets me on the motorway.

Here, madness is swift and comes in shiny, polished disguises. As usual I try to occupy the middle lane, and while I leave the lorries behind me to the right, groaning, puffing and blowing as they carry their heavy load, the cavalry thunders past me to the left. Porsche, Audi, Mercedes, BMW. The fast lane - a catwalk of the vanities. Bored and lonely drivers revel in their voyeurism, as they are rushing past. I did not invite them, yet they nosily peer inside my car like they would peer inside my living room, windows open and curtains drawn back.

Again I turn up the volume and listen to Roky once more, while outside the race continues. On the motorway. In a race where there is no winner, no first, no second prize. Yet everyone still wants to finish first.

Ghost-Town Of My Brain

Lonely winds send tumbleweed across neglected alleys, as I stand by the dusty roadside of my mind. Glaring sunlight bounces off the fissured asphalt and blinds my hazy eyes. There's a dead poodle rotting away in the remains of a puddle. A flock of wild piglets feeds on its bloated carcass.

In the distance looms the tattered silhouette of what has now become a ghost town. I meander through its empty streets. Blunt, revealing sunlight stares at decrepit roofs. Mad coyotes rummage through dented dustbins. Dust gathers on keyboards. The silence is unbearable and there is only so much cricket chirping a man can take.

"Stop meandering down memory lane", grunts the old shepherd. "Move on! What you want, what you are looking for, we don't sell it here no more!" His complacent and sardonic grin grimaces at me through rotten teeth, but I know he's wrong. The shop around the corner isn't doomed quite yet.

I was not lost in the jungles of Argentina. In fact, I have never been there. And while the hands have been idle, the mind was not. Knuckles will be cracked once more, keys will be punched yet again. The brimful drawers of the mind will be emptied and webspace will again be wasted.

And while I contemplate, let us marvel at a glimpse of spring:

January Git

January passes almost without mention. It is bitterly cold and its funeral is dreary and bleak. The brass band never shows up and there are no mourners, except for the drunken beggar and his crippled, one-eyed dog. They stare into the open grave, while a murder of crows glides through the heavy, grey sky, carking noisy insults at the pathetic gathering.

The priest holds his sermon. It is short and plain. There is nothing much to say, yet I reminisce while the coffin slowly descends:

The last remnants of the festive season gradually disappear. Skeletons of christmas trees, deprived of their tawdry evening gowns, litter the pavements. Grandchildren rush into shops and exchange unwanted presents. The last of the Christmas decoration is put back into its dusty dosses.

Spring rears its sleepy head and nature hints at April. Sunshine briskly glares at naked roofs. White becomes brown and green. Footpaths become sludge and melting snow reveals a plastic bag, carelessly thrown away on a cold December evening walk.

It lasts a fortnight, until winter launches a successful comeback, descending upon the world like a predator on its unsuspecting prey. Again white is the dominant colour, and while Australia is being swept away and revolution ripples through Arabia, here early morning life comes to a stop, as the world drowns in a sea of white feathers. Busy townspeople arm themselves with snow shovels. Their battle cries - aluminum on asphalt - are heard on every corner. Their fight is brave, desperate, in vein.

Roads are littered with cars helplessly sliding across the road, dancing their dance on a slippery stage in uncoordinated symmetry. Display of chaos by the ballet of the disabled. The performance lasts until nature surrenders to salt and steel and finally the curtain falls. No-one applauds, no-one bows. Everyone moves on.

Doctor, Doctor

December 28 continued

Parquet floor and warm, earthy colours dominate. Pop Art prints look at me from every direction. They try to look friendly, like the waiting room tries to look comfortable, at which it only partly succeeds. An imposing hulk of a reception desk sits in the middle of the room, like a beast lurking on its prey. It intimidates and evokes visions of Kafka.

The lighting is common for waiting rooms. It is cold and harsh and makes sick people look even more sick. Like the lighting in supermarkets that makes fruit, meat and vegetables appear healthier- and juicier-looking than they are. In both cases I sense a huge marketing scam.

I exchange the necessary essentials with the woman behind the monstrous desk. She is genuinely relaxed, warm and friendly and single-handedly disarms the monstrosity that is her workplace.

I take a seat opposite Charles C. Ebbets' much overused "Lunchtime Atop a Skyscraper". Ignoring the pile of ancient magazines on the table, I unpack my iPad and continue reading Dan Simmons. A young bloke observes my actions and politely inquires about the device. I give him the grand tour, become his very own sales assistant. I do the perfect iPad sales pitch, and am convinced he'll be off to buy one the minute he'll be finished here.

They call my name and I freeze for a moment as it booms through the speaker system. Finally - still far too early. I part from my newly found iPad friend and enter a white room filled with electronic and medical equipment, undoubtedly straight out of Hollywood's latest Sci-Fi-nightmare.

Two friendly, middle-aged assistants lead me to a chair, where I take off my shirt. Warm smiles left and right, as they pierce my skin, put tubes in my mouth, connect me to computers and stick needles into my arm. Blood pressure. Blood samples. Lung function tests. X-rays and ultrasound scannings. Computer screens display multi-coloured graphs, printers spit out columns of numbers, and a symphony of busy beeps and bleeps fills the room. I feel like a guinea pig. A rat in a cage. Should I soon discover the secret of Nimh?

Hazy Shade of Winter

The early hours of the new day are slow. Out of a white, overcast sky, daylight settles reluctantly on snow covered rooftops. Streets are empty. Alleyways lie partly in the dark. A fresh, thin, and still undisturbed blanket of snow covers the world around me.

The air is crisp and clear and the city slumbers in its frozen sleep. The chill feels like needles on my cheeks and I am glad I brought my hat. My footsteps crunch in the soft snow. A jogger crosses my path. He pumps out tiny clouds of breath while effortlessly gliding over snow covered cobblestone. I inhale the cold morning air and it sends a sting through my nose. In the distance I can hear the unmistakeable sound of an ice scraper fighting its fight against a frozen windscreen. A council worker clears away snow and scatters road salt across the pavement. In his bright, fluorescent jacket he looks like an orange fighting an invasion of coconut flakes.

Up ahead I can already see my destination. A cube made of glass and concrete - four storeys of perfect, ugly symmetry. I arrive far too early. Inside it is warm, but empty. I remove my hat and walk up a flight of stairs, sneering at the elevator, proudly celebrating my newly found enthusiasm for relying on my legs instead of technical gadgets as a means of transportation.

A woman services the coffee dispenser. I wish her a good morning and she looks at me like I just threatened to kill her only child. Without coffee I move on. With every step my wet shoes make a squeaking noise on the linoleum floor. I walk past a number of identical doors, before I arrive at my final destination. I enter the waiting room with the usual obedience of someone wanting to be some place else. To my surprise it is almost empty. Is it too early? Isn't anybody sick anymore? Are they all already dead?

It's Christmas! Let's Be Glad!

The weeks of exposure to aggressive, ugly advertising, bearded, fat old blokes dressed in red, and sweetly sickening music come to an abrupt end, as the moment itself passes almost in an instant - much quicker than its slow, pompous build-up had promised. Blink and you miss it.

After being heralded for so long and welcomed by so many, Christmas fucks off and dies with a whimper. Stabbed in the back like a petty crook on the run, left to die in a dark side alley somewhere on the way back to everyday life. Still, while rain turns to snow and the chill makes an unwelcome return, my way home is littered with its remnants and leftovers.

Porches are crowned with arches of blinking lights. The naked skeleton of a tree is illuminated by hundreds of tiny, glowing beads, sitting where leaves would rustle in the summer wind. The shopping centre radiates in a majestic glow that blinds the eye and numbs the mind. It is a proud beacon of commercialism, a suburban siren, luring many a poor soul to financial shipwreck on the rocky coast of consumerism.

A police car stands by the kerbside. Its occupants are looking for drivers who enjoyed too much of the christmas spirit(s). A streetlight flickers and sends out one last, blue-ish spark before going dark for good. The falling snow gets more intense and starts covering streets with a thin, white layer. Winter is back. People go to sleep. Waste bins are filled with torn and crumpled wrapping paper and the bones of turkeys - all evidence has been disposed of. Christmas is over. No-one sheds a tear.

Say Hello, Wave Goodbye

The flame ignites, flickers brightly for a fraction of a second, and dies. The ending is not slow and painful. It is swift, but expected. Love lost before love becomes love.

All that remains are the brief moments we fell into place. The rest is smoke from a smothered candle. I open the window and the breeze clears it away. Romanticism killed by light of day and the noise of passing traffic. In a strange, yet familiar way, reality is a welcome and comforting friend. There is no anger, there is no surprise. Just a feeling of déjà vu.

Routine sneaks in and takes over. It all happens far too quickly and with every passing of the tide the waters become shallower. Some people are not made for relationships. Hopeful fools. Hopeless romantics. Yet they move on and never stop trying ... caught in an infinite loop ...

∞

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 ...