El Borne. Sant Pere.


Like any big city you dont have to live in a back alley if you have the money for a view, an open space, a chance to see the sky. But even 50sq mtrs is pricy in Borne so our studio was quite posh, probably quite expensive. And it was realy done well so it was a lovely space inside. So if you can cope with the tall buildings, the smell of piss and don’t run for suburbia on seeing your first cockroach ( which surprisingly do actually live up to their disgusting tentacled reputation ). If you have faith in your clothes pegs then it is the most beautiful place to live, so close to this amazing park, the beach and the thunderous thighs of the arc. When we got here there was so much to take in I am not sure I appreciated it enough, I marveled but not loved. Now we have found all the nicer shops, pierced the steely amour of the shop keepers with our constant appearance, sussed out the nice restaurants, you could say by repetition, by being here, by it being the place we now know, its home. But just as we are feeling it we are wrenched away to discover a whole new area. And like a dog with a forgotten bone, take it away from me and I see it afresh.
Graham peering out of the window
The apartments colours
The gap in the buildings opposite where we steal our temporary light

The little but significant goings on in the alleys

and into the most lovely park


the slivery trees
the palm trees
and the shadows and the white of the sculptures and the flowers






the cardboard sleepers
the shady building




and the green lake


and the bandstand where the tap dancer congregate



I see the park with its morning outfit and now my leaving eyes have upt a notch. Like the inside flamenco dancer I am, I am emotional. Clinging to every moment as time pulls it away from me. The sound of the pigeons and the parrots, the magic of the park washed by the dark of night, just a few cardboard sleepers left. I stay till the hour of ten and then like a slipper left at twelve the magic dwindles. Not as quickly as chariots horses turn to mice but slowly as this bit of our park, this patch of our ball, turns to meet the globe of fire. The shadows get smaller, the joggers are sweating and Molly is panting. The light whitens and hardens and its time to work. But like being on a deck slowly turning into the sea, I cling onto Sant Pere with fingers squeaking down the slippery deck. I veer into a street market and watch a woman with cherries behind her ears argue.