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[Dec. 17th, 2022|05:59 pm] |
Death everywhere. UK TV is saturated with it: socially engineered murder mysteries between the NEWS, which is replete with morbid sickly requiems for drowned children and the NHS at breaking point: flu outbreaks deadly in intent. My mother asks about an old newspaper "Is it dead?" she wants to know. The next live one will come through the letterbox tomorrow morning - full of a blanket of defeatist messaging to their readership terrified of being put out of their misery.
My ancient parents talk with their friends about all the funerals that took place this month. I think of my manual therapist (dead), and my car mechanic (dead).
My oldest friend calls me. We were supposed to meet for the first time in years. My oldest friend: played in the first bands together: hands sweating so much before we were called on stage despite the whiskey. We practised in his patient parents' attic for the first year. He came to Latvia with me back in 97. Some of you know him.
He calls me to tell me he won't be able to meet me. He'd come up from London to find his parents dead in their home: murdered. |
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