Call it an Event if you like

Actually, it’s not the brain. It can’t be. I fall asleep, or think I’ve fallen asleep, and when I wake up I can’t distinguish the dream from the text. I can’t remember whether I really was down on the tracks in blinding orange, shoulder to ankle, Bono specs and a blue plastic helmet. It was the helmet that knocked me off. I kept thinking of Patrice Lumumba, then the United Nations (remember?). Then Postman Pat, going on an anti-privatisation demonstration. Then I was back on the tracks, walking beside a female engineer, who knew everything about the railway network across the entire south-east. She spoke in language I half understood: spex and secs, four-metre and six-metre, up and down, f’wd f’wd f’wd f’wd. We walked together, the two of us, among men, like we were acting out our childhood fantasies and, in some extraordinary coincidence, had all managed to converge in Tottenham today, between vast tracts of water too still even for mosquitoes to breed. Then Anna comes back. I call her mad Anna because she reminds me of an Anna I know. I think she is that Anna. She’s looking into a glass room, where everyone is masturbating. And then my neighbour is there beside me. Again. “Come on,” he says, again, “come on, girl, be reasonable. It’s not right the way they put their ting in the other man’s batty hole.” I get angry. Again. We argue. I say things like, “What’s the difference between a man’s batty hole and a woman’s batty hole?” He looks at me, all stressy. “What d’ya mean by that?” I shake my head and wonder if Fat Antoyne couldn’t explain it better. And then I’m asleep again. The cat’s come back. I can hear loud noises coming from Lidl’s. Hooting and shouting, hours of it, on and on and on. A champagne cork fires from a bottle. A woman shrieks with laughter. I remember the other woman, the one who saw the killing. Then a Le Creuset frying-pan has filled my head, like it’s been wedged in, dripping in dripping. There’s a phone ringing in someone’s back-garden. The cock is crowing…

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