Radio Room

The radio is
switched on here, tuned to the BBC World Service. The current programme
concerns rugby camps in Soweto; the news at the top of the hour will
follow shortly. The southern hemisphere accents flirt with the heavy
afternoon traffic and bullying school children taunting a lonely
newcomer outside. The radio is retro, a 'Roberts Rambler', it's red
with a leather handle and represents the grace and design of another
time. It's perched upon a thick polished Edwardian cabinet with many
secret draws and shelves that contain letters from friends and lovers
who are long forgotten until only melancholy strikes. Behind the radio
there are uneven stacks of compact discs, books and long playing
records. Dylan Thomas bops with John Coltrane, Paul Weller with Jack
Kerouac. Above these strange unions and slightly askew on a high
custard coloured painted wall is a green-framed Modigliani print of a
man drinking something red, his eyes are judging and seem to move with
the corners of the space.  

class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt">There is a tall rubber
plant that needs some loving and light that clearly is not coming from
the paper electric lamps that have no bulbs. In the fireplace there are
more stacked books where logs should be. Perhaps these are bad books
that should be burned or at the very least sacrificed for heat, the
bohemian style of the room suggests the latter. The carpet is grey and
threadbare with uneven creaking floorboards underneath. There could be
secrets here. There are more radios on the hastily made bookcases and
shelves. Do they work? They are all from our yesterdays. The curtains
are blue and lifeless, washed and drawn too many times shutting out
time perhaps. A blue functional sofa with biscuit coloured cushions
randomly scattered upon an unkempt throw suggest
impatience.

style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt">On the large window side of the room
there is a rickety pine table that would benefit from the use of a
spanner or a screwdriver. The top is stained with circles of red wine
glasses maybe and half brushed breadcrumbs. There is a closed white
Apple Macintosh laptop computer pulsing a blue light as if temporarily
parked. A notebook is open with scribbles and phone numbers and a
dream-shopping list containing bagels stuffed with salt beef and
cucumber, diamond earrings from Macys. An opened pack of Silk Cut and a
stuffed ashtray centre the table, beside this there is a worn credit
card and a rolled cheque dusted white, there has been loneliness here
turned desperate. Edging the far side of the table is a well thumbed
and creased flight itinerary from New York to San Francisco in the name
of a newfound friend perhaps. The World Service announces the hourly
news with its familiar tune.

Something awful is
happening.