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Franz Kafka and his boat

 When I think of  the biography  of Franz Kafka  I only remember  How he rowed his boat  up the Vltava  Then put the oars up  Lay down on his back  At the bottom of the boat  And let the river take him  In his black suit  He looked like a  Dead man in his coffin  When his colleagues  on the bridge  Watched him float  Towards them  And past under them.
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Lost and found

It has been 15 years since I posted these two entries here and I am surprised this account still exists. I was looking for a way to post impressions on books and this simple platform seems perfect for just words.
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How I started drinking tea

In Ireland, I went to a cafe, said "a cappuccino, please", and got seated. The waiter brought me a tea pot and a cup. I hesitated a bit, but decided to go for it. I had two cups of tea with milk and brown sugar, read Irish Independent with it, and left satisfied. This happened two other times. Some weeks ago in England, I ordered "a cappuccino, please". I was given a pot of tea. Now I know better than pronouncing "cappuccino" in the Italian way. If I really want a it, I have to say "a" it like in "cap". But it is too late. I have become a tea drinker. It is especially good with a scone, butter and jam.
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A helicopter

I walk in the forest in Kent and hear a helicopter. In Ireland, where all the towns are by rivers like everywhere else, whenever you heard a helicopter, you knew somebody had jumped to the river. There were two young brothers who came from a pub in early hours and the other one said, I will kill myself, I will jump to the river. The other brother did not believe but went home. His brother jumped to the river and there was a helicopter above us next day; I lived next to the river. This is why I stopped reading local papers in Ireland.
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