Saturday, February 16, 2013

A pair of trainers

On the verge of me coming to London, there was a period of a couple of months -maybe less- when I could not stop watching Carly Simon singing Nobody Does it Better. Summer -had to be summer- of 87, off the cost of Massachusetts, in Martha's Vineyard. Happy and exciting days. The woman cast a spell on me -her slim figure, her long, long hair, "bright hair flapping free" and the enormous contour of her lips giving birth to an all-welcoming smile. Imperfection was doubtless blessed and blessing. Simon's body and motions wrote in the book of innocence. It was the very same innocence that overcomes some people's eyes when looking at a new, to-be-discovered stage of life. The same innocence twinkling in mine.


There was something sensational in a fragile-looking woman wearing unaffected trainers. As a kid, such footwear was the humble attribute of fruiterers and fishmongers and, for the same, you had to oppose it and wear the more sophisticated brand of All Star Converse. It was the clear distinction of the past against the future, the youth against the old, success against failure.

There is nothing like having to travel long distances in the tube constantly (I think I could say which line I am with blind eyes just from the way the seats feel in my buttocks) to see now young people, beautiful women and fashionable guys wearing the base-line trainers... Ahhh... The river is the same, I guess... Touching and rubbing, wetting and flowing around a different skin, I guess.

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