I could write about:
the two pink roses I can see over the top of my screen
the person who gave them to me when they came for supper last night
how I made a hash of dinner because: different country, different products, different kitchen, different tools
how little actual interest I have in cooking
how I have always wished I could open the pantry cupboard and an eager, energetic little chef would pop out
how the guest stayed too long and I went to bed too late and slept too late and don’t know what to write to you today
how no one could possibly care about the small-change details of someone else’s life
how I both do and do not care about the small-change details of others’ lives depending on something, but I’m not sure what the something is
how a bald man with a blond beard in a short-sleeved orange T-shirt is charging up and down the road in five degrees Celsius rumbling big orange bins from behind blocks of flats onto the pavement
how he is the herald of the big orange truck that collects whatever is in the orange bins
how I still don’t know what goes into which bin in Germany
how the last time the orange truck came rumbling by, I saw that the driver was a woman of about 26 and how her straight brown hair had been collected into a straggly ponytail-slash-bun high on the back of her head and she was white and how my surprise surprised me again, because of how conditioned I am to seeing work connected with the removal of detritus with men with dark bodies
how I sometimes used to write short poems about boring things on purpose:
I don't love litchis
Someone gave Gill a bag of litchis. Gill gave half the bag of litchis to Jules. Jules ate several of them and then stopped. I ate none. Ma ate none, even though she likes litchis. I don’t know why she didn’t eat them. Ollie doesn’t like litchis. Ali does, but he forgot to take some home for her. I thought Nandipha might eat litchis, but I forgot to ask whether she’d like some. I know Phumla loves litchis as much as she likes bananas and dates. But I forgot to give them to her when she was here yesterday and now she’s gone away to bury her father and won’t be back before they’re overripe. She won’t have sticky litchis to give the kids on the road. Maybe that’s a good thing. Anyway, Ma’s gone back home and Ollie and Ali are out at Tasneem's. Jules is at her dad’s. And there’s this bowl of litchis in the fridge now and I don’t love litchis. But Margie’s home for the weekend, so I’ll ask her if she likes litchis. I bet she does. She loves food as gifts.
I just texted her.
She said yes.
With an exclamation mark.
Here’s one about the day I bought a new stand for the washing:
Boring stories
Because the wind blew the cheap washing stand fucked-up,
because I went to the big Spar that has the fancy home products,
because the new one I bought was so expensive my eyes watered,
because I got twenty stickers in one shot
I am able to purchase a Masterchef pan from any Spar
for 70% less than it would usually cost – for these reasons
I felt I had something to say over supper
but I forgot what it was, and I tried so hard to remember
that I can’t remember now what other things we spoke about.
When I went to wash my hands after supper and saw my new haircut,
I remembered that the thing I had wanted to tell them at supper
was that the stickers meant I could get a 28cm pan for 299 instead of 999.
I was very glad that I hadn’t remembered earlier that this was my news
because I’d already told the story about how my hairdresser today
said wow, you have a silver streak down the middle of your head,
and this reminded me of something, and it wasn’t until later that I
I realised that what it reminded me of was a skunk. Thank God
I hadn’t remembered about the stickers and the cheaper pan.
One should only be allowed one boring story at suppertime.
I could write about how I haven’t figured out how to drink two litres of water a day if I’m spending most of it walking in places I’ve never been to before and don’t know when I’ll find the next toilet.
I could write about how, after having a freshly pressed juice at Coffee Drink Your Monkey on Savignyplatz – a name that seems vaguely insulting to coffee addicts – I went walking around wondering how long until I’d need to hunt down a toilet again and came across this:
I could write about how every toilet I’ve entered in Berlin so far has been spotless. Even the ones that look like this:
Beside me is a pile of pamphlets of all the things happening in this great, grand place – the poetry, the exhibitions, the debates, the shows.
I am telling you about the botched dinner and the bins and the litchis and the pans-on-special.
Absolutely nothing is boring. Unless you decide it is.
Lots of love,
K.
What I’m doing when I’m not working or walking
Audio book: Age of Vice by Deepti Kapoor
Kindle: Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantell (Finally.)
Movie of the week: Good Bye, Lenin! (Again.)
Song of the week: ‘Free Today’ by Albertine Sarges
New musical discoveries: boygenius (Indie rock) who released their first album at the end of last month. Also, the composer Emahoy Tsegué-Maryam Guèbrou, which is a bit of a late discovery, and only because she died last month, and only because I’m listening to way more instrumental music than ever before.
Thanks. That red flag is priceless! Steal it.
I smiled all the way through this! You’re right: nothing you write could be boring.