Monday, June 05, 2006

He’s On The Beach 

These are days of collections and leaving cards. Everybody’s bursting out all over.

One bloke left to concentrate on his cooking and watch the World Cup; tomorrow a girl is leaving to become a midwife, a four year gestation, a brave journey; and someone else has rented out his house to lunatics and jetted off to Australia for six months, maybe twelve, as long as they can stand him, to sit on a beach looking for casual work.

These are strawberry days, raspberry days.
A barefoot girl in a pretty dress walks round our office with a bowl of summer fruits.
“Have some,” she says. “They’re from my Mum’s garden. She has more than she needs. Really, have some.”
Fifteen years later she will marry and I’ll say you look lovely, because she will, and there’ll be dancing. She drives MGs and Roadsters and will crash often, will need pins and plates to hold herself together, will set alarm bells ringing in airports.
“Thank you,” I say. “I’m Tim, by the way. I love strawberries.”

Meanwhile, Mum has mice in the cupboards again, feasting on drinking chocolate, dozing in the tea bags, shitting on the carousel, and she won’t set foot in the kitchen until I’ve done something.
She rings up to tell me most women are scared of mice, one time your father had to send me to London.

A stranger knocked on our neighbours’ door to ask if she could buy their house. They said yes, and now they’re off to live in France, simple as that.

I guess you’ve got to take your chances. He says it’s brilliant there.

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