The race. We used to play at the railway station. We must’ve been aged ten or eleven. We used to hide behind a pile of oil barrells and wait for a train to come and then cross the shunting yard running as fast as we could. It wasn’t more than seven or eight tracks to cross. The chicken race was to wait for the train, to wait until the very last second, and then cross the rails in front of the train and to have just enough time to pull oneself up onto the platform. Without the train managing to hit you… It was a stupid game, of course.
Numerology. It is the third time, now. For the past six years, three times I’ve been pointed in the direction of an animated short film on Youtube; every other year – and for some reason always in the winter (this time listening to Nirvanas On A Plain) – someone urges me to take a look at the figures in the movie: