Friday, 27 June 2014

A Grape of Plastic Heads

We walked by the sea, and stopped for refreshments. When a few people neared our table to pinch a few salty peanuts, I saw what strange looking folk they were. Blow-up people just a few inches taller, and wider, their faces fuller, and their eyes further away in recesses than usual. Uncanny valley again. Something told me I knew them, or used to know them. They seemed too tall and wide, moved in such slow motion, and had such a distant look of sadness and revenge in their eyes as they were cracking painfully stupid jokes, laughing the metallic laughter of robots.

Someone was giving a speech in this great and tall Victorian hotel dining room. The large overlooking the sea trembled in the wind and a salty mist was rising from the grey ocean. The speech was tedious and stilted, we crept out on to the muddy slopes outdoors.

In our absence there had grown a Stonehenge-like stone circle on the field, and just as I was thinking how odd it was that I had never noticed it before, it morphed into the ruin of a Roman forum, an amphitheatre on the hill...

There were broken columns and a pile of marble heads on the slope, cluttered together in a pyramid, looking like a super-stern conference of disembodied policy-makers. Next to them, a grape of plastic heads with black sunglasses and headphones on, a transparent vacuum in their head, reminded me of the blow-up plastic people from inside.

I started talking to an old teacher, and her frozen raspberry pink lipstick disappeared from one minute to the next.




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