More junk on the blog, following on from yesterday’s post, entitled “Remnants” in which I speculated as to the origins of rubbish left around my town. After a few apt Facebook reactions, here are some photos of the junk that people leave lying around the streets of my small town when they are either too lazy or simply unable to chuck the stuff in a dumpster.
The old lady across the road stares at me with autumn acrimony, holding me in her leafy gaze as I turn into my driveway. Like an old witch she shakes her broom at me and utters a seasonal curse. She used to scare me, now I know she is just totally mad – the madness of having time on your hands and very little to worry about. Some people call it retirement.
It’s all about leaves, my leaves, or those that fall from the maple tree in my front garden – the branches overhang the street and … in summer the old lady parks her car, on my side of the street, under my tree, under the vast leafy canopy that offers shady respite from the warm sun.
In autumn she leaves notes in my letterbox asking me to perform a « neighbourly gesture » and sweep up the leaves.
« All your leaves end up on my side of the street and they blow into my garden, and I’m too old to sweep them up. »
She is happy enough about her summer parking space, but when leaves fall in the fall.
Occasionally she sweeps the leaves from her side of the street back over to my side of the street, but they all blow back to her side, so she started sweeping the leaves into my front garden and then – in an escalation of « leaf wars », she would bag up the leaves from my tree that had fallen into her garden and come to dump them in my garden.
So, I raked and swept and shredded and filled my composter until it choked, then I picked up, bagged up and loaded up the car with bags of leaves to take to the local garden dumpster, and I returned home to find more leaves and I returned home to find the old witch sweeping up leaves, cursing as the wind whirled up and blew away the piles of leaves she had so carefully heaped up, ready for despatch into my garden. She cursed the wind again, angrily shaking her broom at the sky. I thought about saying hello, but she just flew off.
I did my neighbourly duty and swept and raked and shredded again and decided to call it a day when the day called it night and the sun slowly yawned, swallowing the light and the kind of dusty autumn dusk hazed in.
Bags and more bags and nowhere to store them and an evil idea comes to mind – to creep out in the middle of the night and hump my bags across the street and empty them over the witch’s fence. That is cruel, and with Halloween upon us, this is no time to upset anyone endowed with dark magical powers
So, as every year, leaves and more leaves, composted, shredded, bagged up and disposed of, save those last leaves – piled up at the end of my garden. A place of winter « residence » for our visiting hedgehogs. They nestle down deep in the leafy mountain and have done so every winter for the last ten years
Heading home after a walk in the woods, entering Bourges from the north east through the Edgelands – those places on the periphery of town – the final frontier of fast food restaurants, DIY stores and shopping malls, marking the limit of urban sprawl, that seems to sprawl ever further, every year, eating up the countryside. The Edgelands – vast warehouse shops with unlimited parking space. The downtown is dying as consummers opt for accessible, automobile friendly stores where there is more choice – that is actually no more than more of the same.
Looking for lunch. Hey we’ve got traditional American cuisine out here in small town France.
These perihperal places are all so depressing. How about a delicious Pizza in town?
Misty autumn morning a perfect time for a walk in the woods around Bourges
“I got those small day hot town blues baby …”
Yep, temperatures are starting to soar again on this, another weekend for the great French summer getaway. All routes to the sea have been at gridlock all day, with police and the national road authorities describing driven conditions as “black” – meaning just don’t leave home today if you want to get anywhere soon.
Small town, hot day, I am reminded of all those songs about spending a long hot summer “kicking around on a piece of ground in your home town,” – My dreary small town favorites – that Tom Petty classic “Mary Jane’s Last Dance” – slow summer in a hermetic tupperware kind of town. For urban boredom – the Jam song “That’s Entertainment.”
Your soul i screaming for adventure but your bank balance is telling you to stay home. No titles on these, just your judgement. “Small Day, Hot Town.” or “No Road Trip this Summer” – it is 35°c and all you want is shade or a week by the sea. You need release.
You need to get away “Autres destimations” – written on every mail box in France – that slot where you post letters to other places where you want to be. Those places that others send you postcards from, wishing that you were there, and you wish you were
No road trip this summer. Your car ain’t fit for tripping.
If you can’t afford a garage, you’ve just gotta keep the car in the garage.
No money to get away, you gotta look closer to home for your place in or out of the sun.
Just finished painting the bathroom, and I now finally have time for a “photographic” post. The theme is fast food. A report this week in the UK press that fast food outlets are gradually taking over main shopping streets in the UK. In some parts of the north of England, almost 45% of businesses on some shopping streets are fast food restaurants. According to the report, fast food is also fat food – UK obesity rates are soaring – so, the report has inspired me to post a few fast food clichés – restaurants in France and the UK. I hope you enjoy them.
Kebabs with everything – this is the Kebab House somewhere in north east London
If it isn’t kebabs, the it’s chicken with everything or everything and chicken. Here welcome to the Chicken Run, somewhere behind Wentworth Street in East London. And here is more chicken by night.
And if you an’t get fast food, try the all nite supermarket
Tradition British fast food – Fish and Chips – used to be the Friday night working class treat – a bit of cod or haddock fried in batter and a huge portion of chips, soaked in salt and vinegar – Take away and eat at home – traditionally it was all wrapped in newspaper. Ok, fish is expensive nowadays and the humble Friday night staple is now a rare treat – for connaisseurs and fish and chip nostalgics – a plate of Fish and chips and a couple of Fish and Chip shops or “chip pies” as we used to call them. These Chippies are on the Fulham road in London.
Another traditional form of historic UK fast food – the ice cream van. This one is taken near St Paul’s cathedral in London.
The first McDonald’s restaurant opened in London in 1975. I remember my fist bite of a Big Mac, it was – a revelation – far better than the traditional British high street Hamburger chain “Wimpy” – Here are few McDonald’s clichés from the outlet on the Strand in central London.
Here are a few punters
If you don’t fancy burgers, kebabs or fish and chips; try the other great British staple – breakfast – a trend of theses recent years, cafés and even bus, serving an “all day breakfast.” Here is the Big Breakfast in Beckenham in south east London, where in December last year I had an excellent breakfast and a lovely cup of tea (a cuppa) all for under ten quid – I’d recommend this place to everybody.
And the original fast food outlet – this one is near Aldgate in London
Okay, the Brits love their curry, and when in London, do like the locals and head off down Brick Lane for a good old Ruby Murray (Cockney rhyming slang for curry)
Of course, I wouldn’t recommend curry for breakfast, but this place down the back of Petticoat Lane market used to do a tandoori breakfast.
And you though only the Brits had fast food. Here is kebab outlet in the small village of Mourmelon in eastern France – the only kebab in the village, it does a good trade from the massive army base nearby.
Yep, we’ve got Kebabs in France – Ten years ago you couldn’t get a Kebab in my corner of small town France – and now ???? I’ve got five kebab restaurants all within a ten minute walk from my house
Kebab restaurants are like Irish pubs – there isn’t a single town or city in the world without its ersatz Irish pub – well there ain’t a town or village in France that doesn’t now have a kebab outlet.
And that was my fast food photo trip. I’ll leave with one final photo – Leyton High Street, where I once bought a very tasty kebab whilst waiting for a bus.
The Edgelands – that parallel peripheral sub world that marks the transition from civilization to nowhere, from riches to poverty from being to existing.
Everything starts in nowhere places. Those places you thought you’d never be. On your own in those places that you would never choose to go. Those cheap hotels on the edge of the edgelends – lost and forlorn in the shadow of the high rise wasteland and the deserted shopping mall – long neon lit corridors of shuttered up shops and gangs of kids wandering aimlessly in errant boredom. In the shopping mall there is the restaurant – all ersatz, mid-west, plastic rustic burger in a basket, dirty round the edges with unkempt staff wearing geasy uniforms and nochalantly chewing gum in «don’t give a fuck» faces. They slap the food on your plate like they are slapping you round the face and we eat here because it is affordable and feels almost like a real meal. I got tough stringy steak, luke warm overcooked chips and a slice of anemic apple pie for my limp apologetic desert. «Try our delicious steak platter – a thick juicy steak, cooked just the way you like it, served with home made chipped potatoes» and for desert « a traditional home made apple pie served with whipped cream.» The waitress plonks down my anemic apple pie with leaden indifference. I ask her for the cream. She takes an aerosol from a pocket in her geasy apron and splurts «cream» everywhere. «Home made» or made in a place that someone calls home. Away from home you notice just how many people either, don’t have a home, or don’t have a home worth going to. In this ersatz parallel world you also notice just how many people are on the road, working away from home to pay for that home they never see. I call it the «survival circuit», the road trip from hell – plumbers, builders, labourers, criss crossing the land in their white vans, driving at break neck speeds, from job-to-job, from town-to-town,, mobile phones pressed permanently to their ears, that they might just need surgery to get them removed. Miss a call, miss a contract, miss a job, miss a mortgage payment and miss any semblance of a normal family life as you sacrifice any normal life to pay for a dream. And the wandering working classes are here in this grubby, formica farmhouse kitchen – this seedy shopping centre eatery where lost souls seek affordable nourisment – this down-at-heal diner where families from the neighbouring high rise have come for a «family treat» – a meal out in a restaurant. Nothing shocks me now because over the years, I have become used to these places. I am here in a spirit of tastless utilitarian indifference. This is one of those weeks when I am forced to work away from home and home has to be a cheap functional hotel in the insipid mediocrity of the edgelands – that forgotten, hidden, parallel world on the periphery of reality, but maybe this is reality and I spend my life living in a bubble. I was thinking how difficult it must be to run away home, because you end up in places like this that make you want to run away even more. When I stay here, I begin to feel how hard it must be to be «on the run.»
Following photos taken in France – Bourges, Toulouse and Orleans.