At the flea market there is a large ceramic dish, as big as three roast chickens, round and fat, with a leering face above the word Kartoffeln. A vat of mashed potatoes big enough to drown in. Enough boiled chats to play numerous rounds of golf. If it was in my kitchen, it would eat all my food overnight, potatoes or not. It is not a good idea to buy hungry dishes.

At all florists are pots containing flowering bulbs. I find this so charming I could easily buy one a day until the windowsills were full. I choose the type that look like potatoes, with sharp green leaves coming out of them, and gold and orange flowers. Here, potatoes spout flowers. The woman in the shop wraps them up totally, folding the paper over at the top, so my tulips are in their own cubby house. My tulips are children hiding.

Two blacks make a light blue. The couple both in black jackets, hoods and trousers, grown-up goth, the type of clothes you can scale buildings in, have a roundface little boy, wearing light blue. He is smiling at everything, and thwacking the train seat with his fat hands. He stole colour from his parents and made it into his little bicycle and hat. He could eat much Kartoffeln.



One Response to “Kartoffeln”

  1. esther Says:

    there is a goth mum who lives near me and she has a little girl who is usally dressed in candy pink k-mart type garb. it always perplexes me, although I don’t know what to expect – should the kid be in goth gear too? And another thing, the mother always has big bottles of coke and baguettes. I can’t help thinking of it as a goth diet. She is going home to eat chunks of cheese with that bread and wash it down with sticky black coke

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