sebastian michael
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stu really doesn't want to go out tonight

16/4/2016

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Stu really doesn't want to go out tonight.

His mates want him to. 'Stu,' they say, then yell at him from the middle of the carriage, then sit down back in front of him, patting his knee and practically holding his hand, 'come on, you're out.'

'I am out,' says Stu, stoically.' By this, they mean 'out and about'. 
'And? Aren't you enjoying yourself?'
'I am enjoying myself,' Stu says, sullen.

His mates want to know why he doesn't want to go out; he stretches his lanky long legs so they touch the bench opposite and he says: 'I'm wearing these and I'll never get in.' 'These' are his trainers; 'in' at the club.

The shortest of his mates, but maybe also the most sympathetic, says he will. 'I'll give you a hundred quid if you don't get in.' Later, he repeats the wager and raises it with a hundred pounds from each of his mates. Nobody protests, except Stu. Stu isn't having it. He won't be able to get home. 'You're coming with me, you're staying at mine,' his little but sympathetic friend tells him. 

'I want to be at home in the morning, I've got a delivery.'
'Well they're not going to come round first thing are they?'
'Bout ten.'
'I'll get you home by nine.'

Stu remains unconvinced. More than unconvinced, he's steadfast. Part of me wants to turn around to him and say: 'Stu, listen, you're out with your mates; they love you: they want you to hang out with them, don't be such a wuss.' But I don't, because that would seem like putting unfair pressure on him. He's under a lot of pressure – fair or no – as it is. There are maybe a dozen of them in total, inebriated to varying degrees, and by now the carriage is practically full with other people, all of whom now know that Stu really doesn't want to go out. The trainers are clearly an excuse. So, I reckon, is the delivery in morning. As Green Park approaches  – the stop where they'll change for another train to get to Shoreditch, apparently, although the route doesn't make immediate sense to me – they become more insistent. Another one of his mates – this one particularly handsome – squats down in front of Stu and looks at him directly: 'Come out with us, you're with us tonight!' 

'It's eight o'clock now, we're not gonna get into a club before midnight, what are we going to do for four hours?' This sounds like a reasonable question, if a touch pedantic...

'Drink beer!' his handsome mate beams at his face. Stu does not seem too keen on that idea, though the even-toothed smile of his mate in anticipation is pure joy. Stu is holding in his hand a can of ready-mixed Pimms, which is why intermittently, instead of 'Stu' they yell at him 'Pimms! Pimm's get up, you're coming with us!'

Green Park arrives and the lads drag Stu off his seat, literally. He flops back down. He's a tall lad, and quite awkward to get hold of, so they get hold of his Pimms instead and take that with them out onto the platform. 'This train is now ready to depart,' intones the driver over the speakers; the train may be ready, not so the lads. Stu really doesn't want to go out, but the lads really don't want to leave him here alone on the train. 'All right if you're not going, I'm staying with you,' another one of the tall handsome ones says. But the doors now try to close and the lads hold them open and Stu still doesn't budge, so this lad now also reluctantly gives up, and one of them, the one who had got hold of Stu's Pimms, throws the Pimms back into the carriage just as the doors finally rumble shut.

The train departs, with Stu still on it, his head now sunk a little and his eyes fixed on his mobile phone. This is more so as not to look at them as they wave at him and bang on the departing train door, shouting 'Stu! Stuuuu!' than to do anything phonewise.

I feel a bit sorry for Stu and I'm reminded of a night in Berlin many years ago when I was so tired I just wanted to go to bed, but my friends and colleagues all said, no let's go out, and while they didn't have to twist my arm anywhere near as much as Stu's mates just attempted to twist Stu's, I only after a great deal of hesitation finally decided to go, because after all, I was with my friends, and I was in Berlin. I had one of my best nights ever.

I should have told Stu to go with his mates, I want to think, and I'm about to think it, when the man who's since taken the seat directly opposite Stu says: 'Good for you mate!' And I think: actually, good for you, Stu. Now I want to turn around to him and say: 'well done Stu, good for you, you stood your ground. That was a lot of pressure you were under.' But then I think that would be hypocritical, because only five minutes ago I wanted to say to him: 'Stu, go out with your mates, man, they love you: it will be a night to remember.'

Now I think: who knows? Maybe Stu missed the best night of his young life so far. But then he's happy drinking a Pimms from a can and his mates will now be drinking beer for four hours before they may or may not be let into a club in Shoreditch. And he'll be home and in fine fettle tomorrow when the delivery arrives. Whatever the delivery may be.

What might that delivery be? I wonder. Who delivers something at ten o'clock on a Sunday and couldn't be texted, say, or WhatsApped and told: actually, I went on a bit of a bender last night, can you come round at two instead? But then I remember that the delivery in the morning thing, much as the trainers thing, was likely no more than an excuse, and a pretty lame one at that. Stu just really doesn't want to go out tonight. And if he really doesn't want to go out tonight, why should he?

Good for Stu.

(I just hope he's not going to be lonely tonight, thinking, I wish I'd gone out with my mates. That would be terrible. I seem to worry a tad more about Stu than is entirely necessary, I realise, but then so do his mates. At least he's got mates. And they care for him enough to practically drag him off a train. And, as Stu says to another passenger on the train, they'll give him a lot of stick for this on Monday. So probably the universe is in order. They even offered to pay for his drinks. But you know Stu, when they say you don't regret the things you've done, you only ever regret the things you haven't done? That's pretty much true. Give it ten years and most of them will be married with toddlers and very demanding partners or spouses and nobody will be dragging you off a train for a spontaneous night on the town. So next time, if there is one, just go out with your mates, Stu: seriously, even if you don't really want to. At least you'll have a story to tell; I just hope you'll have some good stories to tell, Stu, whatever you do...) 

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the young dad in the tate members room

30/3/2016

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the young dad in the tate members room has not quite settled into his very new role.

his very young face and his very tight jeans and his not very but still a bit hipster beard betray a mind that only a year ago or so couldn't quite have imagined himself sitting here now.

sitting here now perhaps, but probably not like this. not two thirds of a large leather sofa away from his girlfriend or maybe now wife, staring blankly ahead out of the window pane onto st paul's.

the girlfriend or maybe now wife is all aglow with motherly love pride and joy. the babe in her arms has all her attention and all her warmth and all the gift of her love as she feeds him from a small bottle. she is in her world and in her world too is the babe. young dad is in his. two thirds of a sofa between them.

when she gets up and hands him the babe he smiles and takes care as he holds the little living thing in his arms and admires it like an alien. he feeds it a bit too from the small bottle and he's relieved when the mother returns and takes the babe off his arms once again.

they sit for a while longer and for a while longer it like looks like the young dad, who is still a trendy dude at heart with things on his mind just the same as a year or so ago, when perhaps he was told, or perhaps they decided, you're going to be a dad, couldn't quite fathom then the enormity of the tiny thing now falling asleep in the arms of the young woman next to him, two thirds of a sofa and quite a world or so removed.

as they leave she carries the creature and he wrestles a bit with the stroller but then manages all right. he seems like the kind of young man who maybe now is saying goodbye to part of himself that he had got used to and probably quite got to like, and not quite yet said hello to a part of him that's apparently come to him out of nowhere, like a strange surprise of something that happens to be so, not unlike a task given to him by his mum when he was ten, but he's a nice, friendly, good lad, and now, like tidying up his room or doing his homework or eating his peas before leaving the table, young dad is grappling a bit with a reality that doesn't really make sense, but all in all one imagines that he'll manage all right.
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my neighbour is rich

29/7/2015

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my neighbour is rich.

i don't think he has that much money – he probably wouldn't be living in my street if he had, and i imagine he'd own a much flashier car. also i doubt he'd be cleaning the small car that he does own himself.

he's cleaning his small car, a little renault with four wheels and four doors and what i believe is called a 'hatchback' together with his son. his son is about twelve, maybe thirteen. dad's wearing a white vest and the son a blue t-shirt. they're both wearing blue disposable gloves.

never have i seen two people clean their car with more care. never have i seen two people clean a car in such quiet, concentrated harmony. 


while dad is scrubbing under the bonnet, the son has disappeared inside on the floor somewhere in front of the passenger seat. when dad gives the body above the wheels a good rub, the son examines close up and in detail a square inch of roof. 


there are different types of cloth for different parts of the car and different kinds of liquid that need squirting – with unwavering attention – to different spots to get rid of different manifestations of dirt or grub in all different ways.
from where i'm standing, washing up a couple of cups at my kitchen window three floors above, the car looks perfectly clean. not to my neighbour and to his son.


when i return to the window an hour and forty-five minutes later to deal with what's left in the sink, my neighbour and his son have only just really got going. like performers in a conceptual dance piece that has been slowed down for extra effect, they move around the car, complementing each other without ever getting in each other's way. as dad polishes the rear view mirror, son finds the inside nook of the door needing love. 


i take my time washing up, mesmerised by the unhurried devotion on display down below and as they progress into their third hour together, the grown up brother appears and appraises their work with some admiration. he picks up a bottle containing some fluid and nods his head in approval. 


a few minutes later, the brother walks past again, together with an elderly woman who i imagine must be nan: it looks like she's going to catch a bus or a train. 


by the time i'm about to sit down to breakfast with the one o'clock news, dad and son are sitting together in their newly-buffed car, testing the sparkling sun roof. the sun isn't shining, but theirs is a joy to behold. 
their happiness makes me happy. rich is my neighbour and richer for knowing him thus rich am i...
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during the latter part of my lunch

17/5/2015

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during the latter part of my lunch, two men take the table in front of me, exuding gallic masculinity. they have what, in a different era, might easily have given way to machismo, but here stays contained in a presence of quiet authority. they put their wallets, their phones and their cigarettes down in front of them and sit down broad-shouldered and comfortable in their naturally tan skins, at an angle, on two adjoining sides of the table that's square. they're probably early thirties; one is quite tall, the other a little more bulky, they both have dark hair, the bulkier one a little shorter than the tall one, and both wear their stubble roughly the same. they both wear white t-shirts and shorts, the average kind, that ends just above the knees, a little higher when you're sitting down. the bulkier one has his entire left forearm covered in a tattoo that shows an abstract pattern rising above the name 'Anna', written in large letters on the outside near the lower part, and the taller one has no tattoos that from where i am sitting i can discern, but wears a thick silver bracelet around his right wrist, the kind you often see worn by strong men.

they order first coffee – espressos – then pizza and coca-cola and keep in continuous conversation, not agitated, not quiet, not loud, not exuberant, not demur: simple and plain. at one point, the bulkier one takes his phone and shows the taller one a video in which what i assume is his daughter performs what i assume is a song of some sort. i assume it's his daughter because it's a girl of about four, and i hear some faint music in the background of a tinny soundtrack, which makes me think she is performing a song. the taller man shows all the required interest and even holds the phone to his ear so he might be able better to hear. while this is happening, the bulkier man doesn't take his eyes off his friend, seeking, and it seems getting, the desired approval. the pizzas arrive, the conversation resumes and by the time the tall man has finished, the bulkier one is struggling a bit with his, so the taller one, without fuss or ado loads some of it onto his plate and eats that as well.

throughout all of this, their knees never once lose connection. when one of them shifts his position or involuntarily moves his leg, the other does too. sometimes their knees barely touch, just enough for the hairs on their legs to send to their brains the signal that the other one's there, but most of the time they're together. only at the end, when they've both finished eating and a man needs to sit back a little and stretch his legs just a tad, do they part. i don't think for one moment that they were even aware of this or that it has any particular meaning, i imagine it was completely subconscious. all it means is that love is a many-splendoured thing and beautiful whenever you see it and in whatever guise...

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at fabiane's in bedford avenue

10/5/2015

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at fabiane’s in bedford avenue, three generations of a latin family sit together at table: a dad, his daughter and son, his wife, and his wife’s mother. the women are strikingly beautiful. so is his son, but his son is really a child, still, and all children, when they’re not ugly, are beautiful. the elderly lady, the wife’s mother, is sitting nearest the pavement by the little barrier that separates the diners from the passers by. she wears a turquoise dress with diamante trimmings and two golden earrings, quite large. her hair is dyed a red-tinted brown and she wears a little make-up behind her heavy-framed glasses. seeing her right next to her granddaughter it’s obvious how beautiful she once was and how beautiful she still is even now that she is no longer ‘beautiful’. she radiates maternal grace. maybe it's a mother's day outing.

the dad takes a picture of his daughter and wife and mother-in-law and then the wife gets up and takes a picture of her mother, her daughter and son. nothing much else happens, they’ve stopped eating a while ago and are just sitting there now, enjoying the mild evening air and the general atmosphere of a moderate brooklyn bustle, as am i.

then a pale blond and fairly preppy young man walks past and in undisguised rapture falls on his knees and tells the old lady how beautiful she is. he holds her hand and kisses it. for a moment i think that he must be an old friend but he obviously isn’t and the family look on, half flattered, half bemused, in good humour. a young woman retraces her steps and tries to unpeel the young man from what has effectively become a tender embrace of the old lady. seeing the object of his instantaneous affection, she similarly oohs and aahs and tells the whole family how beautiful they all are. the young man has now got up and enquires about the constellation of the relationships and then squats down again, holding on to the flimsy barrier, which wobbles, whereupon he loses his balance and nearly tips over, but the dad steadies him with a firm manly grip.

another young woman and another young man have now joined the party and after more exclamations of appreciation, the other young man takes his friend in a not too rough headlock and starts guiding him off. the young man once more compliments everyone on the marvel of their existence and then apologises for making a nuisance of himself. he says: ‘sorry for being a fucking nuisance.’

the dad says, ‘that’s all right, but don’t swear in front of my wife.’ as they stagger off, mirthfully, the old lady turns around and calls out to them: ‘you have a good night now, and be careful.’

it’s only about nine o’clock in the evening, but maybe they’ve been partying since last night and are now on their way home, or maybe they’ve only just started and are now on their way somewhere else, not that it matters. but whatever it is they’ve been taking: clearly it’s working and turning their world into a land of loved-up wonder. which is fair enough, we all need a little love in our lives. just so long as you don’t swear in front of a lady…


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the date at the table next to mine

9/5/2015

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the date at the table next to mine at pies'n'thighs in williamsburg is not going badly. he's probably a bit more pies and she possibly slightly less thighs than either of their profile pictures might have suggested, but after a minor hiccup at the very beginning, when she actually says the words 'i'm not much of a pie person' to the face of someone who clearly, evidently lives by and for pies, they soon settle into something akin to banter and the topics of their conversation suddenly rivet.

before long, they're discussing the workings of the inner ear and his jokes become less laboured and funnier and she responds with laughter correspondingly more sincere.

i feel almost tempted to order a dessert just to continue listening in for a while, but then i remind myself that this is breakfast not dinner and that discretion is not just the better part of valour but also couth in situations potentially amorous. by the time i get up to leave i haven't yet spied cupid's arrows fly wantonly through the ether, but give them another date or two and who knows...

(and if they then take up walking together, for instance, or yoga, or even stop eating at places like pies'n'thighs but discover, say, sushi as a joint passion, then where one of them arguably slacks ever so slightly she may firm up a bit and where the other's protrusions are somewhat excessive he may shed just a tad, and in the fullness of time they may find they are just about perfectly matched to each other, and indeed who's to say that they aren't already just as they are even now, before they themselves know it.)

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the barista at milano cadorna

27/12/2014

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the barista at milano cadorna railway station makes a big noise arranging his cups and saucers in the dishwasher basket

he doesn’t mind if people know that that’s what he’s doing
he has no problem if people are aware that he’s working, in fact the opposite: 
the loud noise he’s making 
and the determination, the 
commitment
that go with it 
all say to the world:
know that this is being done! 
know, world, that this is being now by me; i
am doing this right now for you
know, world, that this is so!

the clear-pitched crockery clanging noise that he makes comes in short sharp bursts that speak to the world of a busy clientele that never ceases to demand coffee wherefore he shall not fail to load and unload his dishwasher tray lest some weary traveller should go without and this he will not allow to be

he doesn’t expect a response from the world. 
or a compliment
or any further
explicit
appreciation, he can accomplish his task just like that, he just
needs his world
to know…

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the boy who is only going to wakefield

17/3/2013

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the boy who is only going to wakefield
works
with quiet concentration

his book is
bound in leather and its cover
boldly embossed:
the holy bible

his
holy bible
for this book has no words in it passed down
ecclesiastical
generations
this
is a book full of empty pages, it’s
his sketch book and in it
unperturbed by three pairs of eyes that belong to three nearly middle aged men sitting around him furtively trying to assess what he’s doing
he starts in his book a new page
it’s a concept, an
idea
and using two biros one black and one red he draws in quick confident strokes a structure, a pattern, and gives it the title
CONCEPT IDEA

he’s dressed for spring with a t-shirt and jacket and not without reason it’s mid-march already but the weather passing by the grubby windows of the east coast line train is cold and unfriendly most unlike he who is friendly and warm in the fleeting few moments we meet while he moves so i can get to my seat

he works fast and having heard him say that he’s only going to wakefield whilst making way for another passenger with a seat reserved next to the one he’s just moved to to make way for me it soon makes sense to me why: wakefield is only minutes from leeds and already the woman on the train announces we’ll shortly be arriving into it now.

everywhere we go on this train we arrive ‘into’, not ‘in’, which perplexes me somewhat though it’s clearly not wrong, neither grammatically nor contextually, seeing that we’re on the outside each time and heading into the station, the centre, the town, the whathaveyou, and the boy who is dressed for spring (i’m still wearing six layers, though i’ve temporarily shed two for the journey) packs his bible into his slender bag and without looking back or saying goodbye unwedges his slender body from twixt table and seat and
vacates
his briefly claimed place among us on the train
heads
for the exit

he may only be going to wakefield, this boy, but by his art
and to his art his
dedication
i fancy he might be going much further
and glancing outside i can’t help but hope that he does

but before i have time to reflect any more on the 
wakefieldness
of it all
the train does indeed
much as had been foretold
arrive
into
wakefield
“home”
a drab sign, slightly battered, stands rainandwindswept to inform us “of the wakefield express”
which - and you can almost sense a train full of people nod in deep appreciation - is
“always first when it matters”

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the young man with the old suitcase

26/8/2011

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the young man with the old suitcase
has an unusual style
unusual but
successful

his trousers are grey and black speckled wool and his shirt is a very dark brown
so dark it almost seems charcoal
just not quite
it sits firm but not tight on his compact sinewy body
with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows

he must have at least three friends because he wears
on his left wrist
a vintage watch with a light brown strap and
three friendship bracelets of three different types in three different colours

on his little left finger is a plain silver ring that might just be white gold but probably isn’t
and on his right ring finger there’s a broad silver ring
matt
with two dark grooves, one each side by the edge
it’s impossible to tell whether this is a symbol of friendship or love, or just
an adornment

his face is small but endearing
a little mousy, in a nice way
and his hair is dark blond and probably smells of
apple
(on second thought it probably doesn’t, it probably smells a little of musk from a decent but  not overpriced shampoo he used just a short while
ago)
in his left ear he has a tiny diamond-type stud and another, slightly bigger one
under his lip, not in the centre, but to the right, which is both a little unusual and
also
not unattractive

the young man with the old suitcase peels the foil off a lid of a tub of pasta and releases from it a tiny black fork, he unfolds it and opens the tub and slowly starts eating the pasta. every so often he looks up at the panel above the seats opposite to check on the progress of his district line train: wimbledon to the centre of town. when he does so his small but endearing forehead frowns into four even folds, curious rather than worried. his eyes are a little uncertain but mild and you think any moment now he is going to smile. but he doesn’t. he seems quite content and the pasta, while not exactly delicious, is clearly doing the trick.

he’s a fastidious eater and he doesn’t like it when some of the sauce or dressing or whatever it is on his pasta gets on his fingers and he doesn’t have a napkin to wipe his hands and i’m with him on that because i don’t like that either when it happens to me. he doesn’t lick his fingers and i’m glad he doesn’t because that, on a tube train, would be both unhygienic and crude.

on his lap he has a parka that’s black or a very dark grey with a brownish bit of fur around the hood the way you normally see in the winter. it’s august. but it has been raining a lot and although it’s not raining now it is going to rain again soon. he doesn’t want the sauce or the dressing or whatever it is that he has on his fingers from his pasta to get on the parka and i’m with him on that too, because that’s just a nuisance.

he finishes his pasta and puts the little black fork into the tub and replaces the lid and now
he doesn’t know what to do
he looks around for a bin but there isn’t one and so he puts the tub
carefully down
between his feet behind the old suitcase
on the floor

his boots which are ankle high and probably leather or suede are sheepskin or fur-lined but it’s hard to see them properly because they’re
hidden
behind the suitcase

i wonder what’s in that suitcase

it’s light brown, almost beige, made of leather, with two belt buckles and straps to fasten it shut and no wheels or extendable handle, it’s
the kind of suitcase my grandmother would have taken to italy
from switzerland
on a train
it’s about that size too, a third the size of a normal big suitcase, the kind of case you’d have for a short trip or a week end
but it’s loosely, sparingly packed and rather than bulge on the sides it actually has
some slack

maybe it’s empty.

i feel tempted to lift it up just to check, but that would surely alarm him

i wonder where he’s going with his empty
or half-empty
suitcase
and i wonder where he’s from with his successful albeit unusual style that’s a little fastidious but still very cool, maybe
eastern europe

a man with no style at all but maybe a very big heart enters the carriage and sits down nearer the doors and starts talking on the phone in polish. a flicker of recognition registers on the young man’s face, but he doesn’t really look polish to me and also maybe i’m imagining this having just thought that he might be from eastern europe. maybe he’s czech. 

i should probably just lean forward and say
excuse me young man
you have an unusual style that is very successful
where are you from?
and what, if anything, is in your suitcase?

but i don’t because we’re now at earl’s court and i need
to get off
so i leave him to his style and his case and his
mystery


i hope
he doesn’t
forget
to pick up
the tub
when he leaves
and bin it

(because that would just ruin everything)

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zopf

16/6/2011

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the boy with the sore shoulder blade sounds remarkably chirpy: ‘it hurts like hell when i touch it.’

his tone, his inflexion suggest that he’s found a fiver in his shorts.

he had to brake hard on his bike to avoid being run over by a car at a crossing, the car was going way too fast, he reckons.

the chap on the bike right behind him wasn’t so quick, so he crashed into him, supporting himself on the boy-in-front’s shoulder.

‘no worries, man, i told him; if you hadn’t done that you’d have been run over yourself by the car.’ what his voice suggests is: ‘hey good to meet you; sure, i’d be glad to have a beer any time.’

he’s now on his way to hand in his apologies for tonight’s training in person. there are, after all, three goal keepers now, and the weather is wet, so training will probably be taking place on the astro-turf. it’s important to him, this, so he does it in person. he doesn’t say it’s important to him, but the way he says that he’s going to hand in his apologies in person, and the way he says it three times suggest that it is. you don’t just phone in your absence, his voice is saying, you go in person, and make your apologies. because of the bad shoulder. the shoulder, though, his voice also says, will be all right, it’s nothing to worry about. at least the other chap didn’t get run over, that would have clearly been worse.

and he’s doing well with his marks, he’s got a five in art [six is the best], and nadia has an average 5.5 across the board now, so he told her ‘you see, you didn’t even know how good you are with your marks’.

it’s not clear whether nadia is his sister or girlfriend, what he says sounds more like the latter but his tone is more that of the former.

now he’d like a zopf please for a brunch he’s having on sunday. (a zopf is a plaited loaf of white bread that tends to taste a bit sweet and is very popular on sundays in switzerland, though not necessarily for a brunch.) it’s not entirely clear where he’s having his brunch, but he’d like his interlocutor to bake him one please, for sunday.

he signs off, with a chirp still about his whole being, but the choice of his words is both casual and strikingly grave: ‘ciao mother!’ i have a feeling she may just oblige...
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