There is a song by the incomparable Laurie Anderson titled “Gravity’s Angel”. I can’t remember the thrust of the song, knowing Lauries material probably her grandmother eating a yam in Belize, but the main issue is that the title gives gravity a sense of something it isn’t; my nieces can be Angels, girlfriends are (I seem to remember), Kate Bush is, but gravity is not, certainly to the overweight such as myself. It is in fact a devil torturing me as I return uphill from the warm slimly clutches of another breakfast fry-up. Every footstep fights this invisible tormentor and I just feel the evil sentience behind this mist of heart disease.
This morning the final piece of evidence. Laboriously walking up St Mary’s Terrace at the back of where I live, short of breath and losing the will to go on, what should appear through the drizzle of sweat; a cat drifting towards me with a soft demanding purr, you see? Cat, familiar, witches, spirits, Oh come on, need I go on…
A rare shot of Gravity taking a break
Steve