Friday, 2 September 2011

Conspiracy Drive

"'She's Elvis!" yelled the woman with a haircut pencilled in by an infant. But could I believe her? Well no, not yet. I didn't know who the she in question was? Had someone asked, I would've shrugged and said: "Erm, Elvis?"

Nobody asked.

The woman was pointing at something far over the Thames in the direction of St Pauls. A police helicopter crossed the North Bank but neither her eyes nor her finger followed it. I watched it drifting south and passing under a small passenger jet making its way to City Airport. The sky behind was bright and blue with a few wisps of cloud, and the city below shone, cleaned, spring cleaned, autumn cleaned.

Nobody remembers the cleaning, which never happened. Nobody remembers anything. They save it. Ctrl S.

It's a dirty word 'cleaning'. Too much over-enthusiastic cleaning. Too much confusion over dirt. Dirt is what we don't like. Some people don't like moules. Some don't like to eat chicken with their fingers. Dirt is naughty sex. Dirt is any sex. Dirt is three days at a festival and not being able to feel your skin. Dirt is lots of things to lots of people.

There's nothing to read into the dirt or the cleaning here. Yesterday London sparkled.

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