2009 Films: LIII and LIV

( L'Auberge Espagnol ((The Spanish Inn) Pot Luck, Cédric Klapisch, 2002) )

( Religulous (Larry Charles, 2082) )

Totals: 54 - [Cinema: 16; DVD: 35; Television: 3]

Spring Break

Context - you want context.

I'm at a conference, in Belgium, and I've not been getting a whole lot of sleep. Partly it is the lateness and the earliness of the hours, partly one night of noncontinuous sleep of less than two hours' duration, for reasons you really don't want to explore, but I fear, ironically, dehydration was involved.

And now it's over, and I've had lunch with Michael Stackpole and MB and - okay - a drink may have been involved. One beer. With a silly name. But time passed. Mike is headed in search of chocolate, and MB is headed off. I help him check out, and figure I might as well walk him to the station, so I can check the times for my trains the next day. It's not at all clear, I have to say, but it looks like he can get one in about twenty minutes, and I can get one just after the hour. We part. No point in hanging round. He's a big boy now.

It's a sunny day, and we'd heard music, which seems to be coming from some sort of cycle rally in the square in front of the station. I've checked my train times, and the sun is in my eyes, and I'm tired, and half of me has an eye on the cycles and half on the mobile phone that I'm getting out the pocket to see what time I have left before meeting Tickling Fool, PW, JW, AW, Mike and the other survivors. Perhaps I need a coffee and some chocolates and                                                                                                                                       the ground is not there                                                                                                                                      it vanishes                                                                                                                                        forward falling I'm                                                                                                                                       reach out                                                                                                                                       left hand                                                                                                                                      glasses off                                                                                                                                       phone spins                                                                                                                                      glasses off                                                                                                                                        there's a second                                                                                                                                        fall                                                                                                                                      I hit. Slabs. Glasses back on first, and retrieve phone and what's left of my dignity. I've fallen flat on my face because I didn't see the kerb. A couple of cab drivers show a second of concern, but no one helps.

I limp to my feet and look uselessly at the timetabling boards again. Back round the square and try a couple of photographs - I can't seem to focus, but I'm amazed the camera is not broken.

I can see the church - actually it's the city hall - at the end of one street, but I need the toilet. I go down some steps into what appears /will I fall down those stairs/ to be an underground car park, but that seems a dead loss. There must be a toilet somewhere. I do a little window shopping - and note the H&M has a different stock /will I fall down those stairs/ from what I'm used to. AIDS tshirt? Maybe not. There's a library building, surely in/my arm just jumped/ there there will be something.

Yes, but a tiny room, with tinier cubicles. It's hard to /jump/ push it open. The door. It's hard to push the door open. It's /ow/ hard to undo my trousers and I so need the - yes, the problem again that kept - no, you don't /ow/ want to know.


There's a courtyard next to the library, and I sit there for an hour, watching cyclists come and go, trying to/twitch/deal with a certain amount of pain. I've clearly jarred my arm, that's obviously to be expected. But it's surely /ow/ not broken - if it were then I'd be in lots of /ar/ pain. I wander around the town, unable to settle, trying to take photos. There are cafes, but they loom like they would need a pantomime of Americano, and I'm one arm down. I find the recommended chocolateer, and do a lot of pointing and asking, and at no point /twitch/ does the bored assistant offer to list what they have and put me out of my misery. It's too much choice.

And rather than coffee, I buy some coke, and settle first near a peculiar statue

and then/twitch/wander back to the square in front of the university library where I can watch for the arrival of the others.

Michael is there first, and then PW, JW and AW. I spot Thomas crossing the square, and it is only when /ow/ he is right upon me that he sees us. Tickling Fool was last, or next to last - and I think there was someone else but I forget.

We go to a place that specialise in ribs, although I'm not convinced they wanted to serve us. I have a beer that is made of curved trolls according to its name, and it's fine, but /twitch/ the rack of ribs is tough to pull apart, especially one /twitch/ handed. Eventually I explain, and there is concern, and I feel I'm stiffening up. We wait to pay, and I need another beer, but apparently we have to go to the till where /twitch/ we're in the way.

Back to library square and a bar in its shadow, where the jolly bartender is pleased I'm having a beer. I'm fat so should drink beer, is the message. Chiz.

Back to the hotel, where PW gives me pills to kill the pain and I to pack. I get some ice from reception to make an improvised icepack, and struggled to pull open the lift door. The receptionist has to open it for me. Sticking things in the rucksack isn't bad, but pulling the chord is tough. I manage to sleep, somehow, but I'm used to little sleep.

We leave at 10am on a train to Brussels; PW, JW and AW off to sightsee, me with rucksack to await a train. I get some money out a cash point as I'm running low, and find a cafe next to the station. PW has lugged the rucksack to that point, but now I struggled to get my left arm in before swinging the rest on. I don't want to move, but two hours is all I can kill. I've noticed lots of people, with shopping bags, and deduce there's a market. It looks interesting, but I'm weighted down and still can't focus. I buy a waffle, then go to the station. I can't check in for three hours, so go in search of a toilet. Christ, this is indelicate, but there are maneuvering difficulties /twitch/ with one hand. Buy more chocolate.

I start marking the essays I've lugged with me, clear customs, mark some more, board the train. By Ashford I'm down to the last two. It's a struggle to get out the international station, as the ticket slots are too small, but I get through some how. Half an hour wait for the final stretch, and then a taxi. I didn't spend that money from the at/twitch/m.

*

And, now, clearly I need to go to casualty - I'd not wanted to go to hospital in Belgium, having not done an E111 and not wishing to miss the train. I have a string of meetings and commitments, so I can't go, but the arm is getting better. Can't be broken, you'd be in more pain, say some. Can't be broken, you can move your fingers. Nonsense, say some. I could and I'm brpken mine, Could be a hairline.

It's Tuesday, after therapy, when I'm finally free, and I go up there by 2.45pm, later than ideal. Minor Injuries Unit. It takes forever to sign in, and an hour to get to triage, although only two people are in front of me. I've brought a thick book. I can wait four hundred pages - although Heinlein is tough on the wrist.

Triage aren't certain, on hearing the story, and note a lack of movement. I have to wait for the nurse.

Another hour. The two people ahead of me are still there. A soldier turns up, and a lad with a foot shaped bruise in his ribs which must have come from somewhere. A couple of small children. David Dickensen auctions antiques. There's a clever bit where the Judge pulls the wool over Johann Sebastian Smith's descendants' eyes. But all the characters sound the same.

The nurse and trainee nurse get me into a cubicle and leave me for ten minutes. Then they pummel my hand and wrist, and nothing really hurts. It may be broken, but they will only xray elbow or wrist. Off to xray, down deserted corridors.

A cleaner points me to empty chairs. More waiting - it has gone 6 o'clock. Various people are wheeled up on beds, each iller than the last. Is it a student doctor who xrays me, or am I just old? Now I need to go back to the MIU, and more waiting, but I'm back in a cubicle by 6.45. My arm is sore from being bent into shape for my close ups. It took a while to attract attention to be sent to a cubicle, and the nurse is told that the man with the arm is back. As opposed to the man without arms. After another twenty minutes the nurse calls me across(  and gives me the news. )