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.
I wasn’t anxious about crashing, but about landing.
I was as nervous as a whippet. Leaving London, leaving England, filled me with fear.
I’d ask myself, How did I get here? How did this happen? then remember, and forget again, and carry on like everything was normal, which of course it was.
He’d tell me fragments about himself, but not much more. He was like a 1,000 piece jigsaw puzzle to which I’d only found the corners.
Alberto did something to displease a Russian customer, who, as a sort of warning, mimed slitting his throat.
His most recent relationship had been with a pre-op f-m sex change, but Yaron grew bored and ended it.
Waiters tap their fingernail impatiently on the table and remind you, sternly, that the bill doesn’t include a tip, even as they hand you the menu.
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.
He’s in Israel ‘in case’, and I know that the case he’s most nervous of is Muslims taking over Germany. Israelis, as far as I can see, think that’s something that’s already happened.
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.
“You’re in the land of Zion,” now, he shouted, “you’re in the land of the Jews!” He was obviously a lunatic, but I didn’t want to back down.
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.
On my birthday I go to an exhibition. Its themes are: death, separation, misery, gloom. Everything but fun. Perfect!
What I missed, every day, yearned for, actually, was a British-style pork sausage. I dreamt of them. At least I think it was sausages I saw in my dreams.
It may have been my sympathetic manner, it may have been the badge that says ‘Cock’ that I wear on my lapel, maybe it’s Maybelline, who can tell, but Ido soon began to tell me scandalous stories about his busy sex life.
Vera said, for everyone to hear, ‘Jews want money, of course,’ and laughed.
He said he’d had a headache, and had to pack, but I knew that it was love that had made him a liar.
He was the colour of honey, a few freckles across his shoulders, his pale-pink nipples catching the sunlight.
She killed more bees, just so she could fill the tiny bee graves she’d dug.
She said she’d visited my father’s grave and told him my news. He was, I understand, thrilled by it.
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.
I have measured out my life in expensive hotels, it seems, and I gauge my tan in types of honey. I am now millefiori, and aspire to castagna.
She danced with Alberto, I don’t know why, the joy and sadness of the occasion, I suppose.
Unusually for Israel, this Land of Blutos, he had no beard, no stubble, no hairy chest. He said, “Let’s go in,” so in we went.
I’ve decided to stop saying goodbye, and start saying hello, instead.
Maybe everyone thinks it’s his costume for Purim, a Bacon painting of a Screaming Pope.