On a drowsy
double-decker bus, beyond the dramatic heights of Seven Sisters and on the way
to lively London via sleepy Brighton, Moab
Is My Washpot served up another gem: “Past is a foreign country where
everything is done differently”. Which is painfully true, and yet what if you
can still understand that language and feel like the consulate is out of work
and you are not getting the visa any time soon? And the past is still the
present and refuses to let go? To let you
go, and it still holds you by the lapel or the collar or the fuzzy locks of
your hair? And what if they speak the same language and do things in exactly
the same way? And what if a familiar face makes you go numb with vaguely
recognizable joy? And those are the very same eyes that don’t even have the
look of the past and instead have that same expressive
wonder and you love them for it?..
Bus driver never
sleeps, but what about you. To the sound of drizzling rain and the dark, unreadable
pages of the paperback, you are crouched in the corner by the front window and you press
your face against the glass. Dimly beautiful, gently snoring countryside floats
by. “Queen Of Eyes” by the Soft Boys starts playing in your headphones, but no,
please no, that is way too loud. You need silence. You switch it off and
slowly, slowly drift from past to present. And then back again. Until you wake
up – in a foreign country.
