Sunday, June 14, 2015

Blonds 2

I already knew the man's name was Biondo, because he'd been on the same train as me from Milan, drinking from a 75 cl bottle of Peroni and discoursing to some German Expo workers in English about freedom. When they got off the train they gave him a round of applause, but although the train was full no one else came to sit in the four seats around him.
However he wasn't blond but black, probably from Senegal I guess. He had a small rucksack and looked like he'd been sleeping rough. At Gallarate he stayed around the station, chatting to a couple of Moroccan boys smoking out the front.
'I'm a Musltian,' he said in Italian. 'I'm a Muslim and a Christian and  a Jew. I come from Egypt but one day I will be freed, w'Allah.'
I didn't hear the response but when he got on the ground to pray Muslim-style, calling out to Jesus and Mohammed, they seemed to become a bit uncomfortable and moved off calling back 'Salaam, brother, good night.'

Blonds 1

Gallarate station is not a particularly attractive place at any time,  and after the last train at 12.45 is utterly without charm.
I was waiting for the bus home to Varese, and smoking with two men in their fifties, taxi drivers on their way home from work.
'You shouldn't be waiting here alone. There's a lot of ugly people around  at this time of night.' When people say this to me I always wonder what evidence there could possibly be that THEY are not among the ugly ones.

Tuesday, June 02, 2015

Luxury: Zero Hours Stories #4


‘How the working life?’ asked my dad that evening. 

‘It’s OK. My boss is really nice.’ 

The agency hadn’t found me another office job although I’d been on their books for six weeks, waiting around to find work every day. Instead I’d eventually been given a Christmas shop assistant job, a few weeks working in the small central London flagship store of a luxury British food brand. For shop work, it was a great gig- the shop hadn’t changed its opening hours for decades, so it was closed at the weekend and every day we were mopping the floor by 4.45, unless a tourist chose to linger among the china, ignoring our practised British hints (up to and including pointedly mopping around their feet). 

‘Frank, no boss is nice. They stop being nice once they become a boss. Whatever they’re giving you, you can be assured they’re getting it back twice over in your labour. That’s what bosses do.’