On Saturday I go on a derive which, I'm told, has no direct English translation. It's somewhere between a wandering and a drifting. I thread my way through a series of Streatham's second hand book shops in search of old art books containing coloured plates that I can paint into. The man in Bookworm looks at me strangely when I ask him if he has any art books . He must think I'm speaking euphemistically because he only seems to sell books full of photographs of people playing Twister without any clothes on. No one seems to be enjoying themselves in the photographs - not a smile between them. It's only natural to laugh when someone elses body makes a farting noise when it touches your own.
Up on a high shelf, covered in dust, is an old book on Rembrandt. I take it down and inspect the edges of the pages: "water cut", I say to myself. The store keeper draws near and looks up at me through his milk-bottle-end spectacles, I think: "It's true what they say - it does make you go blind."
"Not many people know about water cutting these days - but you do, sir."
I think: "What a supine creep. If he thinks I'm going to buy his crummy book, or play Twister with him, he's got another think coming."
Milk-bottle-ends turns toward an unshaven raincoat,who has been making an in depth anatomical study, and says abruptly: "This isn't a public library you know? Do you want to buy something - or did you come here to get out of the rain?"
I look out through the window - there's not a cloud in the sky. On my way out I think: "This guy is weird - but not in a nice way".
Pass a church with a sign outside reading : "If you go to church for weddings and a funeral u are missing out". Those guys just crack me up. Can't stop thinking about twister.