Sunday, Jun. 01, 2008 5:55 pm

The Rooster On The Wall

I returned to Berlin today. The city was baking hot: as I stepped off the plane I walked into summer, it surrounded me with its heat and breezes. On the train I took off my coat and jumper and fell asleep against my rucksack.

I don't know what it is about Berlin. I wandered around the streets that I knew, feeling so comfortable, as if everything down to each torn poster had been specifically tailored just for me, by a man who knew my entire character inside and out. I drank a beer in the sun, and then an Eiskaffee at a bar. I bought a flower and carried it back to my room. It is standing in the centre of a white table, shivering slightly in the breeze through the open window. My desk wobbles as I write, tottering as if too old to go on with this nonsense anymore.

I wonder if everything this time round is going to be easy. So far it has all fallen into my lap. This flat, the people in it, the location, the offers of interviews. I would like this to go well. If the book implodes I will need something comforting to fall back on.

Opposite my window is an old Berlin building, one of those slightly derelict Gebaude that were never renovated and are still heated by coal stoves. On the wall someone has painted a rooster's head. He is looking at me side on, he is perfectly level with my own head as I sit here at the window. As with most large birds there is something maniacal in its stare. So fixed. I wonder if all birds of its kind are insane?

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