The Art of Waiting - Part One

Part one? Yes, I have two stories about the art of waiting. Today I'm going to tell you one.

It was last Saturday. We were at the Queen's Theatre, a dark and empty shell, with crumbling walls, on which were being projected various moving images made by people of varying degrees of artistic talent.

A woman in a black coat came up. Hello, she said. I'm the curator of this grainy mishmash of arty pretentiousness. Feel free to look around.

Actually, she probably didn't say the middle bit.

Then she said, if you are still around at four o'clock, two of our artists are putting on a demonstration of their work over there in the corner.

We looked at our watches; it was half past three.

At four o'clock, having looked at everything for longer than it deserved in order to oblige the woman in the coat, we approached the corner, where a row of plastic chairs was being assembled. Six or seven people had materialised, and the two artists. We sat down.

The artists were two young men. One, in brown trousers and a green jumper, stood behind a desk on which there was a turntable connected to an Apple laptop, and some vinyl records on a stand. Above his desk was suspended the wide end of a roughly handmade white cotton cornucopia or sounding trumpet, on a frame, which gradually diminished to become a long white ragged tape that the second artist, who wore a pale blue suit, wound several times around his neck, before sitting down at a table, on which were several small items of haberdashery, some pincushions containing threaded needles, and some coloured inks.

Now that I have set the scene, may I invite you to practice the art of waiting? Yes, if you are here this time tomorrow, I shall tell you the rest. Sit down, don't go away.

Rainer

Why am I here, on Union Street? All by myself on the footpath. Under the narrow eave of a carport with cream rollerdoors. Staring at nothing.

It's raining that's why. It's raining hard. I'm waiting for someone to come and get me. I'm sad.

My hair is dripping; my scarf feels damp on the back of my neck. I'm wearing a black coat; I'm carrying a purple shopping bag. Inside the shopping bag the items are damp. I'm worried about the Weetbix in its cardboard box. The box is swelling.

In front of me is the street. Union Street. A quiet little street. Opposite me, a cream fence, and a tree. It's a small tree, with some autumn leaves, yellow, red, green, still clinging to the lower branches. The upper branches are bare.

The sky above the fence is dark grey, and the sky directly above me is white. There is a flash. And rumbling thunder. The sky's secret. The rain is easing.

To my left, a fence covered with a creeper. Orange trumpet flowers, waxy green leaves shining and wet. Quivering.