Invalidovna

There are some worn and peeling benches just outside. The perfect place to have my lunch. And having lunch is a good cover to do some people watching. On the bench just over from me is an old guy with pants secured far above his waste and a bright red trolley. Two metal-heads stand at my right with jackets draped imperially over one shoulder. It's a fairly humble duchy they lord over. Crooked cement slabs, a bistro, the old man and a mother trying to coax an ice-cream into her child's mouth but succeeding only in smearing on the child's face.

I wonder where the word bistro comes from. It looks Italian, but it could be a French word that has been rendered 'phonetic'. There's a hairdresser's beside this bistro, which makes it less appealing. Food and coiffure don't mix.

I get half way through the cous-cous I brought then put it away and go and do my thing. Perhaps, it's the recent illness but I don't feel inspired and Invalidovna is not a place to lack inspiration. I weave through the panelaks. They remind me of Mladá Boleslav, especially why I was happy to leave. A boy dodges the explosions which arise from his mind and exit through his mouth. And then it's quiet.

All that intrigues me here is the seemingly empty panelak in the centre of the block. Someone was living in the very bottom corner. There's a bed, a portable electric hotplate, magazines, centre-folds on the walls, table and chairs. This abandoned life is on show like any shop display in the wall length windows. I try the main door but it's locked. I don't think I have the courage to go further even if it had been open.