Thursday, May 04, 2006


A really daft thing happened on Monday. This guy called Nambo, a friend of Helium came over to see me. We know each other fairly well, I thought. He lives in the next street. He had been telling me about this girl that he’s been seeing when he just flipped and went for the window. The conversation went like this starting from the door as I opened it:

“Hey Nambo, how are you?”
“I didn’t call.”
“Can I come in?”
“Yes, yes of course come in.”
“So how is everything?”
“No, no. No thanks, really no tea, I’ve err…”
“Whatever, listen! Sorry can I sit?”
“Yeah, what’s the matter?”
He took out a bar of chocolate from his pocket and left it in his lap unopened.
“With the chocolate, no?”
“No. Sam, I…she left.”
“I’m sorry to hear that mate.”

Then he just got up and thrust himself at the ground floor window. He got jammed though because it was only opened a little way, as far as it goes. We struggled; it was really hard to get him free and to squeeze him out and I had to rip his shirt. His shoe fell off too. He sobbed all the way through this. He didn’t say anything about the girl. He just kept saying something about an American writer called Richard Yates whose career had been seriously undervalued. He mumbled things about people being, “Janus faced fucks.” He said that no one really cared about anything, that selfishness was an unavoidable rule, that human beings are hard wired to struggle and that choking on your food was just more irrefutable evidence for the non-existence of a truly altruistic God. We couldn’t find the shoe so he left with a limp. Afterwards I was worried and tried his mobile a couple of times. Then this morning he phones to say he’ll come over because he wants to talk. I’m expecting him to apologise. When he arrived he behaved like nothing had happened and he denied, vehemently denied that he’d come over. I tried to find his shoe again as evidence, speechless. He tells me I’m mad and I’m supposed to believe that a stranger came over who looked just like him. All the time that he’s there he’s doodling frantically on printer paper that I have in the kitchen. When he goes I see that it’s a picture of a car crash. The car has crashed through and into a kitchen just like mine, the car, smashed up, is jammed into the front of a washing machine, my washing machine.

When I speak to Helium about all this he laughs and says that I shouldn’t get too upset about it, that he does it all the time. He’d never done it to me before.

Tomorrow I’m going to a gallery called ‘10’ in Hoxton, East London. A Japanese friend called Koyo makes these little figures from pen caps. She carves them out like ivory. They are all these little models of World leaders who have suffered damaging forms of psychosis during their time in power. One of them is of an American president who tried to slice his face off which he didn’t manage very well to complete. He bled a lot.

Anyway Nambo left the chocolate bar behind and I ate it. I still haven’t found his shoe though.


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