bit more than three feet off the ground, which is the maximum height you can be to come in. Iâve seen children come tearing up the stairs to get in and find out that theyâve grown in the months since their last visit, that theyâre too big to come in and play. Iâve seen them
raging
that theyâll never be allowed in again, that theyâve had their lot, forever. You know theyâd give anything at all, right then, to go back. And the other children watching them, those who are just a little bit smaller, would do anything to stop and stay as they are.
Something in the way they play makes me think that Mr. Gainsburgâs intervention may not have had the exact effect everyone was hoping for. Seeing how eager they are to rejoin their friends in the ball room, I wonder sometimes if it was intended to.
To the children, the ball room is the best place in the world. You can see that they think about it when theyâre not there, that they dream about it. Itâs where they want to stay. If they ever got lost, itâs the place theyâd want to find their way back to. To play in the Wendy house and on the climbing frame, and to fall all soft and safe on the plastic balls, to scoop them up over each other, without hurting, to play in the ball room forever, like in a fairy tale, alone, or with a friend.
REPORTS OF CERTAIN EVENTS IN LONDON
O n the 27th of November 2000, a package was delivered to my house. This happens all the time â since becoming a professional writer the amount of mail I get has increased enormously. The flap of the envelope had been torn open a strip, allowing someone to look inside. This also isnât unusual: because, I think, of my political life (I am a varyingly active member of a left-wing group, and once stood in an election for the Socialist Alliance), I regularly find, to my continuing outrage, that my mail has been peered into.
I mention this to explain why it was that I opened something not addressed to me. I, China Miéville, live on âley Road. This package was addressed to a Charles Melville, of the same house-number âford Road. No postcode was given, and it had found its way, slowly, to me. Seeing a large packet torn half-open by some cavalier spy, I simply assumed it was mine and opened it.
It took me a good few minutes to realise my mistake: the covering note contained no greeting by name to alert me. I read it along with the first few of the enclosed papers with growing bewilderment, convinced (absurd as this must sound) that this was to do with some project or other I had got involved with and then forgotten. When finally I looked again at the name on the envelope, I was wholly surprised.
That was the point at which I was morally culpable, rather than simply foolish. By then I was too fascinated by what I had read to stop.
Iâve reproduced the content of the papers below, with explanatory notes. Unless otherwise stated theyâre photocopies, some stapled together, some attached with paper clips, many with pages missing. Iâve tried to keep them in the order they came in; they are not always chronological. Before I had a sense of what was in front of me, I was casual about how I put the papers down. I canât vouch that this was how they were originally organised.
Â
Â
[
Cover note. This is written on a postcard, in a dark blue ink, a cursive hand. The photograph is of a wet kitten emerging from a sink full of water and suds. The kitten wears a comedic expression of anxiety.
]
Â
Where are you?
Here as requested. What do you want this for anyway?
I scribbled thoughts on some. Ca
n
â
t
find half the stuff. I do
n
â
t
think
anyoneâs noticed me rummaging through the archives, and I managed to get into your old place for the rest
(thank god you file) but come to next meeting. You can get people on your side but box clever. In haste.
Are you taking sides? Talk soon. Will you get this?
Come to next
raging
that theyâll never be allowed in again, that theyâve had their lot, forever. You know theyâd give anything at all, right then, to go back. And the other children watching them, those who are just a little bit smaller, would do anything to stop and stay as they are.
Something in the way they play makes me think that Mr. Gainsburgâs intervention may not have had the exact effect everyone was hoping for. Seeing how eager they are to rejoin their friends in the ball room, I wonder sometimes if it was intended to.
To the children, the ball room is the best place in the world. You can see that they think about it when theyâre not there, that they dream about it. Itâs where they want to stay. If they ever got lost, itâs the place theyâd want to find their way back to. To play in the Wendy house and on the climbing frame, and to fall all soft and safe on the plastic balls, to scoop them up over each other, without hurting, to play in the ball room forever, like in a fairy tale, alone, or with a friend.
REPORTS OF CERTAIN EVENTS IN LONDON
O n the 27th of November 2000, a package was delivered to my house. This happens all the time â since becoming a professional writer the amount of mail I get has increased enormously. The flap of the envelope had been torn open a strip, allowing someone to look inside. This also isnât unusual: because, I think, of my political life (I am a varyingly active member of a left-wing group, and once stood in an election for the Socialist Alliance), I regularly find, to my continuing outrage, that my mail has been peered into.
I mention this to explain why it was that I opened something not addressed to me. I, China Miéville, live on âley Road. This package was addressed to a Charles Melville, of the same house-number âford Road. No postcode was given, and it had found its way, slowly, to me. Seeing a large packet torn half-open by some cavalier spy, I simply assumed it was mine and opened it.
It took me a good few minutes to realise my mistake: the covering note contained no greeting by name to alert me. I read it along with the first few of the enclosed papers with growing bewilderment, convinced (absurd as this must sound) that this was to do with some project or other I had got involved with and then forgotten. When finally I looked again at the name on the envelope, I was wholly surprised.
That was the point at which I was morally culpable, rather than simply foolish. By then I was too fascinated by what I had read to stop.
Iâve reproduced the content of the papers below, with explanatory notes. Unless otherwise stated theyâre photocopies, some stapled together, some attached with paper clips, many with pages missing. Iâve tried to keep them in the order they came in; they are not always chronological. Before I had a sense of what was in front of me, I was casual about how I put the papers down. I canât vouch that this was how they were originally organised.
Â
Â
[
Cover note. This is written on a postcard, in a dark blue ink, a cursive hand. The photograph is of a wet kitten emerging from a sink full of water and suds. The kitten wears a comedic expression of anxiety.
]
Â
Where are you?
Here as requested. What do you want this for anyway?
I scribbled thoughts on some. Ca
n
â
t
find half the stuff. I do
n
â
t
think
anyoneâs noticed me rummaging through the archives, and I managed to get into your old place for the rest
(thank god you file) but come to next meeting. You can get people on your side but box clever. In haste.
Are you taking sides? Talk soon. Will you get this?
Come to next
Similar Books
