I have a memory of a group of us dancing on a pontoon on the lake one Friday night that I think about if ever I need to reduce my blood pressure.
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.
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 sits back in his black, leather chair, makes a steeple with his fingers, and is definitely in charge, while I sit on the edge of my seat, lean forward and gibber like the monkey I really am.
Outside the Kabbalah Centre, by Diezengoff Square, a man eating a felafel approaches me. He has long, wild hair and a huge, wild beard, like Ben Gunn, or Roy Wood from Wizard. He has, obviously, never been convinced by the merits of conditioner. Much of the tahini from his lunch has been redistributed in his… Continue reading Beggars’ banquet