Shlomit says that she can’t help it, but she is a little bit racist. It had to be today, of course, everyone is thinking about it, that’s what it’s for.
After exertions, he told me more about his life. He is, of course, involved with someone, blah blah, they’re breaking up, blah blah, or maybe not, blah blah.
With the sort of froideur you only find in people in glass booths or servants of minor European royalty, he told me to take a number.
He smirked as he signed the form for an inspection of my prostate.
The service was conducted, of course, by a large angel with glitter in her hair.
If you’re thinking of seeing the Ministry for yourself, it is probably wise to take sandwiches, a thermos and maybe a sleeping bag.
Finally, I sat in the barber’s chair. “Not too short,” I said. “You want me to cut your eyebrows?” he asked.
At the launderette, an elderly man took off his trousers, put them into the dryer without washing them. He sat on a chair and offered me a cigarette.
He’s too polite to say he thinks he’s more handsome than me, but he’s not too polite to think it.
Tim, infuriated by the sounds of a mother playing with her baby, who wouldn’t be, poured a glass of water onto them from his balcony.
Nathan, whose greatest fear is that he’ll develop a resistance to Botox, returned from Frankfurt with the face of an inexpressive eight year old.
I discover that doing nothing is more fun than having nothing to do
He laughs. “I wish! I wish you’d fuck me.” He howls this into the night. He doesn’t care who hears. “Fuck you all!”
It’s all quite plush, for a sex room, newly built and well maintained. It’s better finished, by far, than my flat, and spotlessly clean.
A man at another table pointed at me, his hand trembling, and said, “Itzak Stern sat there.”
She looked disgusted, as if I’d admitted to a taste for rat, or beetroot, or something.
He tells me at length ‘what I should do’, which includes marrying his 48 year old niece. She’s a PE teacher, he says, guaranteeing her attractiveness.
He carries, at all times, a beautiful modern edition of The Art of War, which he reads during the break.
He asks me if I know Little Britain, and shows me a picture of the year he dressed up as Daffyd, the only Iranian gay in the village.
There was a thing by her in the turbine hall of Tate Modern a few years ago, enormous, black, metal spiders. Horrible.
I notice a couple on a third floor balcony of the Royal Beach having sex. We watch the distant, bobbing figures for a while.
I ask if there’s anything that connects us, the new immigrants. ‘We didn’t fit in at home?’ says Megan, in that way that makes statements sound like questions.
The man said, ‘I hate Jews.’ Alvin said ‘Ok’, and continued showing the property…
I am distracted, and slightly repelled, by her moustache, can hardly take my eyes off it, actually…
A man, Sharon, comes over. He’s wearing a kippa, which I find quite sexy.
It was like the movers hadn’t packed me, they’d archived me.
Tasks always take a stage or two more than you expect in Israel.
Everyone’s eyes were on it, their heads moving with it like at a tennis match.
Rainbow flags everywhere; hanging from balconies, flying from lampposts, in café windows. If this isn’t the gayest city in the world it is, at least, trying to be.
They seemed especially nervous of ‘conceptual’ art. I can’t imagine what dark things they imagine.