| Bubbles in the Brain |
[Dec. 7th, 2008|07:26 pm] |
Back in Suburbia, my mother and father look out at their ex-neighbours returning from work.
‘There’s Peter! And there’s Debs, look!’
Gates open, Doors open, arms swing stiffly.
‘God, they all look so old!’ says my mum.
We are, of course, in a dream. I get that early on when my old man asks if I want to drop in on Rio Ferdinand.
We walk down the street. It’s a beautiful warm day (the sheets are clean), but the sea, incongruously, bashes the shore in high dudgeon. We walk past a pub, all in claret and blue. Bitter is taken on the tables, conversation in the quietly harsh Essex, signed photos of West Ham players on the walls. I know this is the boozer the old man started working in part-time when he lost his job in the recession of the late 70’s/early ‘80’s.
Un kad dzivoju Bruninieku ielā, tā smarža no tās ielas alus baru atvertām durvim bieži veda mani atpakal 30 gadus; proti the smell of spilt beer dried on old carpet.
I helped him bottle up there (I was 9), and one of the regulars taught me ‘Bubbles’ and told me I’d be singing it for life, and I got a half pint of shandy and sat outside with it, and one day about a week later I come home from school and he tells me to guess who he served that day, and I don’t know and can’t guess and he tells me
-Trevor Brooking!-
And we go in, and he meets his old mates, but those who’ve died come apart like old dolls – their arms are just full of stuffing you see, and no amount of English encouragement can put them back again.
Un tad, protams viss mainas (rakstišu slikti), un mana meita veda mani no turienes ar
-Kad tu iesi prom no sejienes?-
-Uz kurieni?-
-Nu, uz pasauli! Piemēram Italija, Francija, nu Pasaule, taču-
Un mes esam kadā pilī, te Latvijā, kurā viņa rapjas uz, protams, neželigam augstām stāvām sienām, kamer es uz vinu skatas ar sirdi mutē. |
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