On The Quiz

I’m thinking about age:

On the bus home, and I’ll be damned if this doesn’t make it into a Polaroid Press piece sometime soon, I’m sat next to an old man lost in thought on his headphones. He gets up to leave around the same time an older woman not far ahead rises to go. She’s got little ear buds in as well, and this flicker of bravery crosses her face when she sees the man. She asks him if he’s listening to The Quiz too, and he smiles and says yes. They leave the bus and wander off into the night chatting together, a little connection that would never have been had they not made eye contact and gotten on this moody driver’s trip. Beautiful. You’ve also got to love any quiz that’s known universally to its listeners as The Quiz, some capital in its importance. I want to play this quiz, this night changing event that guides the kindness of strangers.

I’m not. I’m drinking a cold can of Carlsberg. I’m writing. I’m smelling weed smoke drift up the stairway along with burning toast. I’m listening to a party that has repeated itself since around the time your Grandad got a gleam in his eye. My Not Sister is having a party downstairs, way more sedate than the scene I expected, and I recognise in it something of myself five years ago. I recognise in it the elements of friendships and fear and fun and family that I think we all had, to a greater or lesser extent. I wouldn’t go back, I’m pretty cool with my life as it stands thanks, plus The Lady would kill me, but if there’s one time in my life I wish I’d taken more photos…

Enough! More booze! Tomorrow there is work to be done, as well as a dip into Hakim Bey’s theory on the T.A.Z.

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