A friend tells me that overheard, whilst walking through town, an old woman in mid-flow: “And the best thing was, it was only cancer”. You can prefer the sparkling dialogue of an arthouse director all you like, nothing quite compares to the snatches and snippets of phrases picked up by accident and chance from yer actual real person.
“She said if I suck her toes later she’ll give me a gobble tonight,” said the tracksuited teen outside a shop two weeks ago. My most recent favourite is the woman who, two people ahead of me in the queue, muttered to a friend, “It is a shame to see dear old Marks and Spencers looking a bit ‘Asian corner shop'”.
This last incident was delivered sotto voce, very much the preferred way of spreading opinion in every office and workplace I have ever called my own. The influence from reality television is very prevalent within offices nowadays, as though addicts of Big Brother and such have re-programmed themselves to speak in the manner of contestants worried about eviction night or electrocution hour or whichever punishment has been contrived.
Whilst waiting to get into the Manc Academy – who for? Was it Biffy Clyro? No….t’was Fightstar, ah yes…..Anyhoo, behind me stood and chatted two young women who were clearly close friends. I was made aware of their closeness by their long and detailed conversation centred around a bloke was some kind of common link. “Does he still ask loads of questions during sex?” one asked the other. “Am I doing this right, how’s this, what about this?”. I wondered how far this q&a would go – bedroom doors have a lock on them for a reason, no? – until they were met and interrupted midflow by a cheery man who was clearly the fella with the love making interview process. You could not, really, make it up.
Will spend today away from the temptations of eavesdropping, if I can. Some writing needs to be done, as does cleaning (the flat is looking ‘lived in’ rather than ‘livable’). To help me, I need music in the background (I am blessed without easy access to BBC One and therefore Sunday morning stables like Nicky Campbell’s increasingly contrived ‘debate’ show).
I have been mostly listening to Preston’s ambient metal hotspurs Stichthread, whose temperament bubbles underneath like a married couples argument.
Much repeated listening too to Cats and Cats and Cats, who are now on the radar of all the magazines hip people skim-read waiting for the Tube, through whom I am now enjoying Wot Gorilla?, whose plucky-strummy-loveliness nevertheless implies all Hell could break loose given the chance.