LONDON JAN 2006 - SQUATTING JUST LIKE A DOG
During my time at the Bud brewerey I stayed with some Zimbabweans in Barking, out in zone four. We all slept upstairs - the couple, Branco and Ashleigh, in one bedroom, Branco's younger brother Jody in the other. I had a sort of walk in closet which I paid sixty pounds a week for.
I'd known Branco and Ashleigh a little before I moved in, and thought them quite normal; but I was soon to think otherwise. Whenever I finished work the procedure at the house was usually the same. I bought a bottle of Vodka, or Jody bought one, and we stood in the kitchen and drank it. Branco and Ashleigh sat in the lounge, on a dark lounge suite which gave off an iridescent sheen, like radioactive sludge, and they exchanged rotten looks as the noise in the kitchen increased. There was some bad feeling about Jody because they felt he drank too much and was irresponsible - not saving his money and so on. I didn't think so - he was pretty sharp - but I'd stayed in enough London house-shares to know to stay out of squabbles. After a while Jody would go upstairs to phone his girlfriend in Yorke, and I stumbled into the lounge and quickly dried up. Ashleigh's brother happened to be an alchoholic, she informed me. Back in Zim he crashed his car all the time and had to be restrained at weddings, and - Ashleigh said this very seriously - he shat in the garden, squatting down just like a dog. As a result she had no time for slurring fools. Fair enough. After this story even I resolved to cut down on my boozing for a while.
This resove was usually undermined, however, by a domestic crisis unfolding while I was sitting there watching Fame Academy, or Reach For The Stars, or The Dating Game. One memorable crisis was ignited by Branco's predilection for the latest cell phone. His newest acquisition, about the size of a postage stamp, was sitting on the chemically irridescent armrest of Ashleigh's chair. This phone was bugging the shit out of her, gleaming there like a malignant little jewel. She couldn't stretch out, it was getting in the way, so when Branco went into the kitchen she quickly put it on the carpet beside her chair.
Branco came back in and sat down without seeing it. We were all watching The Dating Game. A hunk was firing questions at three women sitting behind a screen. 'And what do you do for a fun time?" he asked a plump brunette.
'Well, if you wine me, dine me, and sweep me off my feet, I'll be your good time girl any day of the week!' Rapturous laughter and applause.
'She wants to give him one!' Branco said. Then his head snapped to the side. He jumped up from his chair and stood over Ashleigh, in line with her view of the tv, and told her with quiet menace to pick up his phone. Ashleigh refused to budge. She peered at his crotch, which was blocking her view of the tv, and she cocked her head to better hear the sound, which was blaring.
Branco shifted a little on his feet and loomed over her. 'Ashleigh ... I'm not going to tell you again ... Ashleigh, pick up my phone.'
Ashleigh's eyes glazed over and her head went very still, but she continued to stare intently at his crotch. She even went so far as to look interested when Cilla introduced a new contestant. Branco began to sweat. 'Ashleigh ... you know how I feel about my phones ... Ashleigh ... Ashleigh! Pick up my phone!'
Ashleigh shook her head - one shake, a defiant spasm - and made a strangled noise in her throat. Then she went back to peering at Branco's crotch with a piqued look, while Branco shifted on his feet and loomed over her and a pleading note crept into his voice. Ashleigh waited just long enough for her victory to be obvious - or until Branco was about to hit her, I couldn't tell which - and then she reached out with a prim look and placed Branco's new phone back on the armrest of her chair.
What was Branco going to do if she hadn't picked it up? Crack her on the head with the tv remote? Grab her by the shoulders and give her one of those vigorous shakings which affect the lining of the brain? I asked Jody. 'Those two are fucking mad,' he said.
I'd known Branco and Ashleigh a little before I moved in, and thought them quite normal; but I was soon to think otherwise. Whenever I finished work the procedure at the house was usually the same. I bought a bottle of Vodka, or Jody bought one, and we stood in the kitchen and drank it. Branco and Ashleigh sat in the lounge, on a dark lounge suite which gave off an iridescent sheen, like radioactive sludge, and they exchanged rotten looks as the noise in the kitchen increased. There was some bad feeling about Jody because they felt he drank too much and was irresponsible - not saving his money and so on. I didn't think so - he was pretty sharp - but I'd stayed in enough London house-shares to know to stay out of squabbles. After a while Jody would go upstairs to phone his girlfriend in Yorke, and I stumbled into the lounge and quickly dried up. Ashleigh's brother happened to be an alchoholic, she informed me. Back in Zim he crashed his car all the time and had to be restrained at weddings, and - Ashleigh said this very seriously - he shat in the garden, squatting down just like a dog. As a result she had no time for slurring fools. Fair enough. After this story even I resolved to cut down on my boozing for a while.
This resove was usually undermined, however, by a domestic crisis unfolding while I was sitting there watching Fame Academy, or Reach For The Stars, or The Dating Game. One memorable crisis was ignited by Branco's predilection for the latest cell phone. His newest acquisition, about the size of a postage stamp, was sitting on the chemically irridescent armrest of Ashleigh's chair. This phone was bugging the shit out of her, gleaming there like a malignant little jewel. She couldn't stretch out, it was getting in the way, so when Branco went into the kitchen she quickly put it on the carpet beside her chair.
Branco came back in and sat down without seeing it. We were all watching The Dating Game. A hunk was firing questions at three women sitting behind a screen. 'And what do you do for a fun time?" he asked a plump brunette.
'Well, if you wine me, dine me, and sweep me off my feet, I'll be your good time girl any day of the week!' Rapturous laughter and applause.
'She wants to give him one!' Branco said. Then his head snapped to the side. He jumped up from his chair and stood over Ashleigh, in line with her view of the tv, and told her with quiet menace to pick up his phone. Ashleigh refused to budge. She peered at his crotch, which was blocking her view of the tv, and she cocked her head to better hear the sound, which was blaring.
Branco shifted a little on his feet and loomed over her. 'Ashleigh ... I'm not going to tell you again ... Ashleigh, pick up my phone.'
Ashleigh's eyes glazed over and her head went very still, but she continued to stare intently at his crotch. She even went so far as to look interested when Cilla introduced a new contestant. Branco began to sweat. 'Ashleigh ... you know how I feel about my phones ... Ashleigh ... Ashleigh! Pick up my phone!'
Ashleigh shook her head - one shake, a defiant spasm - and made a strangled noise in her throat. Then she went back to peering at Branco's crotch with a piqued look, while Branco shifted on his feet and loomed over her and a pleading note crept into his voice. Ashleigh waited just long enough for her victory to be obvious - or until Branco was about to hit her, I couldn't tell which - and then she reached out with a prim look and placed Branco's new phone back on the armrest of her chair.
What was Branco going to do if she hadn't picked it up? Crack her on the head with the tv remote? Grab her by the shoulders and give her one of those vigorous shakings which affect the lining of the brain? I asked Jody. 'Those two are fucking mad,' he said.
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