Showing posts with label Lyon. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Lyon. Show all posts
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Julien. His Bedroom
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Julien when straight up to his room, locked the door and turned his television on. Then he surveyed his room; the book shelves full of games, his bed, the wardrobe, the posters and the toys that he no longer needed or wanted to play with any more.
The iPhone posed a number of problems, problems that he decided could be sorted out over time but the most pressing issue was hiding it and keeping it quiet.
The phone was now his secret possession and he wanted to keep it that way.
Friday, January 8, 2010
Charles. Hotel Royal.
Charles knew that the Hotel Royal was not within budget but, as far as he was concerned; if a man had to travel to this damn country to work on a yoghurt account, then that man had the god given right to sleep in a half way decent hotel.
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Standing at the window and looking down at the Place Bellecour he felt the tension subside a little. The client meeting wouldn’t be until the afternoon and there was the meet-up in the lobby in the evening. He was actually quite looking forward to that he realized. He’d never actually met any of these people but it felt like he’d known them forever.
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Standing at the window and looking down at the Place Bellecour he felt the tension subside a little. The client meeting wouldn’t be until the afternoon and there was the meet-up in the lobby in the evening. He was actually quite looking forward to that he realized. He’d never actually met any of these people but it felt like he’d known them forever.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Julien. Place de Fourvière
He couldn't believe his luck. He just couldn't believe his luck. He'd wanted one of these for Christmas but his mother had told him that he was simply too young to have one. Now he had one. What could have been a boring day wondering around some boring old catherdal listening to some old fool waffle on about windows, ghosts and stonework had just turned into some quite magical.
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He found it under a pew. He'd just wondered off leaving his parents nodding and asking the old chap about a stain glass window that had once been removed. He'd sat down and prayed that it would be over soon; that he would be able to go home and lock himself in his room. Then he spotted it.
He bent down and pretended to tie his shoe laces, took it and slipped it into his jacket pocket. He stood up and rejoined his parents. Julien had just bagged himself an iPhone.
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He found it under a pew. He'd just wondered off leaving his parents nodding and asking the old chap about a stain glass window that had once been removed. He'd sat down and prayed that it would be over soon; that he would be able to go home and lock himself in his room. Then he spotted it.
He bent down and pretended to tie his shoe laces, took it and slipped it into his jacket pocket. He stood up and rejoined his parents. Julien had just bagged himself an iPhone.
Monday, January 4, 2010
Saul. Pizza Pino.
Saul sat in his corner of Pizza Pino, sipped contentedly on his rich dark coffee, flicked casually through his copy of Le Monde and watched the hustle and bustle pass him by. A small but delicious pleasure.
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With a little effort he could have worked out how many times he had sat at this table; how many hours, days, weeks - could it even be years he'd tallied up? How many times had he wiped the coffee from his moustache and how many times had he used the back of his hand to do it? Had the moustache been a deep brown bush of bristles when he had first sat here or had it always be this grey? Had the back of his hands always looked so old, boney and flecked with brown or had the first wipe been achieved with smooth white skin?
Saul stretched out his arms and looked at his hands, chuckled and decided that, at eighty five years old, it was a complete waste of his precious time remaining to consider his squandered time past. No, he decided, his precious time remaining should be spent sitting in Pino's, drinking coffee and watching charming, young, female tourists attempt to cross the road.
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With a little effort he could have worked out how many times he had sat at this table; how many hours, days, weeks - could it even be years he'd tallied up? How many times had he wiped the coffee from his moustache and how many times had he used the back of his hand to do it? Had the moustache been a deep brown bush of bristles when he had first sat here or had it always be this grey? Had the back of his hands always looked so old, boney and flecked with brown or had the first wipe been achieved with smooth white skin?
Saul stretched out his arms and looked at his hands, chuckled and decided that, at eighty five years old, it was a complete waste of his precious time remaining to consider his squandered time past. No, he decided, his precious time remaining should be spent sitting in Pino's, drinking coffee and watching charming, young, female tourists attempt to cross the road.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Claire. Place Bellecour.
As Claire stood at the center of the Place Bellecour she felt the uncontrollable urge to cry. After four weeks of travelling through Europe, with all the language problems and the cultural differences, the homesickness was more than she thought she could bear.
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She considered for a moment that this sudden breakdown; this deviation from youthful adventure, may have something to do with the Place Bellecour – a huge orange square; empty, except for Louis XIV and an enormous Ferris Wheel. She was lonely, lost and surrounded on all sides by pounding traffic.
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She considered for a moment that this sudden breakdown; this deviation from youthful adventure, may have something to do with the Place Bellecour – a huge orange square; empty, except for Louis XIV and an enormous Ferris Wheel. She was lonely, lost and surrounded on all sides by pounding traffic.
