Rubbish is Made of Stars, too

I’m sleeping in a hotel. R is in the other bed. We are on the ground floor, and through open French windows, I hear the angry shouts of drunken young skinhead men in the grass outside. It’s about 5 a.m. One of them is standing his ground on a path. He tries to provoke a passerby into fighting him, telling him “Your only way out is through me, don’t try and go round”, at which the passerby circles around him on the grass and is gone. I watch through a gap in the curtains. I’m concerned they could just walk in, these unreasonable, violent oafs. I carefully close and lock the French windows. A skinhead voice sings a mocking chant about seeing spying eyes. They have noticed me. Another asks what they should do now. They are angry and frustrated and bored. 
Worried that they may try to brake in, I leave my room. I climb stairs until I reach the roof. I photograph the skinheads as they become more excitable, like children. They merge with children in the playground below. They are children. 

I return from the roof to the top floor. Gaming machines and a bar. The sounds of children running riot on the levels below. I don’t want to pass through them to escape, I’m afraid. I see a rubbish chute. I remove a bag, and slide myself down the chute into the basement. I land in a pile of discarded paperwork. I remind myself it is made of stars, like me. The lead skinhead sits on another pile. I become Frankie Howard as I obsequiously ingratiate myself to him. 
I’m on the grass outside with B. A formal meal is laid out on table cloths on the grass. B wanders off to view some artwork. I try to eat a small plate of salad, but I’m unsure which fork to use. The cutlery is jumbled up on the slight slope. A waiter suggests that he takes it away and under his breath, that I fuck off. I don’t belong here. 
B returns. She has a confession. She loves me, and wants to settle down, in a small house with a sunny back garden where children play in a safe, friendly community. She sits on my lap and I hold her as we talk. I find my umbrella. Still wet. I tell others sat on the grass about the secret to get past violent skinheads, defending one position: go around and ignore them. 
Children laugh and play in the sun on the green, green grass of a fantasy home. 


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