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Tales of my fortunes in London involving philosophy time travel heroin addicted granny, prophesy, prostitution, murder, global conspiracy, friends, and personal finances. I am from east germany and fled to england when my parents where murdered and have been living here unofficially since.

Tuesday, December 20, 2005

Tolerance

It was near Christmas and I came back after working at the bar to find my Grandmother in an unusually good mood. She was drinking schnapps and crooning to herself. I found a small blue guitar in a skip and handed it to her as a gift. She took it up and started singing all her old songs and I had a rush of tenderness for her. It reminded me of magical christmas parties we used to have in my childhood, with Grandmother singing and playing and all the party joining in, smoking cigars laughing drinking joking with dimness filled with colourful light softened orange by happiness and warmth. I sang along and we looked into each others faces with laughing joy. It was a wonderful moment that stood out like a star in all this bitter darkness that filled my days.
But then came a pounding on the door. A large man in his thirties with a balding head and a dirty white vest confronted me as I opened the door a crack. "Stop that horrible howling guitar NOW, some of us have to work for a living." Was the gist of what he was saying, although it seemed to go on a lot longer.
Eventually he had had his say and went away. We were beaten. The complainers have inherited the earth. If you complain, you are always right. The orange glow vanished and was replaced by a pale blue. My Grandmother's face, moments before a radiant beacon a joyous love, crumpled it to a tired old broken rag, grey and used. She dropped the guitar despondently to the ground and bowed her head. The sound of my sobbing was drowned out by the sound of police sirens wailing, a heavey goods lorry idling outside the window, rattling the window pains. A train rumbling underground, vibrating the floor boards. Cars reving their engines and sounding there horns. The spin cycle of a washing machine. All these noises were allowed by the balding man. But our piece of happiness, that he could not tolerate. And the police and society is on his side. We must suffer in silence rather than rejoice together in musical harmony.

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