I leave work at around 3:30. The sky is grey and the stickiness that stuck all over the air for the past few weeks has been replaced by a sting.
I turn right instead of left because I need petrol. I always need petrol. €40 should do it. I go into the shop to pay. Why the fuck did anyone let Tesco get their hands on fuel supplies? I consider a magazine, but realise I don't want to know about the secret love of a BB babe, whatever that might be. Nor do I wish to see them 'unclothed as never before!', as another publication offers.
Apparently €40 gets you half a tank now.
As I start to drive away apocalyptically loud hailstones begin to fall. It's September.
I want to switch on the car radio but I can't. It doesn't work. It hasn't worked since I bought the fucking thing.
The clock reaches towards 4 as I hit the M50. It's filling up like it shouldn't be filling up at this time. The moisture in the air means enough drivers are on enough of a go-slow to turn my 30 minute drive into a 50 minute one.
No sooner am I home than the beloved calls me for a lift. I am happy about this. The car will not start. I am not happy about this. I know that it will start later but later is no good right now.I walk to meet her instead. I am now glad I bought that severely-reduced-on-sale-but-still-too-expensive-for-what-it-is raincoat last month.
The rain is pissy rather than heavy, but it is consistent. There's a flash of lightning over a nearby hill and a tummy rumble of thunder right behind it. It's September.
For the sake of shelter we pay a visit to the bookshop. It doesn't have a name you would recognise above it and I like that. It also often doesn't have what I want, but today there is one copy of Persepolis left. This makes me happy. I will read it to sleep later on. No, later on I will drop the ladyfriend home and drive off, with my book snug in her bag.
I watch the news at 9. The 72 year old who sings songs about bombing Iran is ahead in the race to be leader of the free world. Gardaí are increasing their armed units. Belarus says it will no longer allow Chernobyl children to come on holidays to Ireland.
They tell me it will be the seventh anniversary of a critical event in history in one week's time. I think it was the day the world broke a giant mirror.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
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14 comment(s):
I'm obvioulsy reading this a bit too late, came across as Kafka-esque.
thankfully, it still reads a little like that this morning.
Erm, thanks. having never actually read Kafka I can only say that's coincidental. But I'll take it as a compliment.
I thought it mostly came across as crap-esque, having not written it down quickly when it came into my head.
Maybe the similarities are with the earliest stories from his short stories collection then?
B - as I said, I wouldn't know. Kafka's always been on my 'classic writers I really ought to try out' list. Maybe, now that I've been alerted to the fact he's ripping me off, I'll give him a go.
This sounds like an ad for Born Na Mona - driving around in the rain, everything going wrong, you're just missing the mammy and the blazing fire.
The no radio thing - you need to get that sorted!
Lottie - Nope, I saw the mammy yesterday evening so whatever was affecting me definitely wasn't that.
You're right about the radio, though, it's a bit ridiculous at this stage. Never underestimate the power of my chronic laziness.
Bleak. Great post though.
He's worth it... all the big name writers are though, if they wind up crap you can bitch about them for eternity!
Lottie - Aplogies, I realised last night that I'd misunderstood your comment, i thought you were suggesting I was missing my mother, rather than that I'd left her out of my piece.
Annie - thank you, you're a lady.
B - I was meaning to pick up one of his books when I was in Prague a few months ago but the beer was just so cheap there...
I quite like the tone in this one, if this is what Kafka is like I might risk it. Bought Salman recently. Still trying to fight my way through - think my brain is too small, it needs a work out regime first. Or else I read it when I'm tired (never good).
I like the way you've written a miffed/indignant post about the rain, rather than a moaney one. (I believe I've ranted about the moans before...) Hurrah for less moans ;)
MJ - which Salman? I read the Ground Beneath Her Feet First, and loved it. Then i read Fury, and it's a load of impenetrable shite. Put me off reading any of his really famous ones.
i'd recommend Rushdie's The Moor's Last Sigh with heart and soul. unfortunately lent my copy to someone and didn't get it back, but it's one i've read again and again.
Cool post Andrew. Inspirational. Keep up the good work.
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