‘It is time for us to get out of Switzerland’ you announced and I couldn’t have agreed more since we were not in Switzerland and my feet were suffering in the clogs. My right hand had been shot away in Bavaria and I refused to employ my left hand for personal reasons.
We had moved to the fifth storey of the hotel. Your chauffeur sang a message up the drain-pipe:
‘There are many exciting opportunities arising in the glove compartment,’ which was code for
‘Love has vanished from the world, better jump.’ I pulled the rip-cord of my winter parachute,
waved in the brusque air, like a strangely lovely fevered shiver. People were still on the streets.
It was quite funny the way they’d carried on speaking, standing outside burger joints, re-enacting a chat,
puffing on a ‘fag’, pretending to breathe – you have never seen smoke so tremulous in its falling lace.
The following week you were passing moist-eyed beside the once beleaguered lime chapel, moaning about being typecast, ‘I never even cry. My eyes just get moist. Moist is the extent of my emotional range.
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