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Oktobris 7., 2007
18:11 - Psycho The Rapist
We sat there in his room, me in front of his desk and my Mam sat on a chair behind me. And he wasn't a bit nice. He wasn't nice at all, like my Mam had said he was. He had a bald head and a big bushy beard so it looked as though his head was on upside down. And the first thing he said to me was, 'So, Raymond, do you know who I am?'
I just nodded. It was a stupid question. I didn't even answer it. I knew who he was and he must have known who he was so what was the point in answering him?
'So,' he said, like he was starting to get impatient with me and we'd only been there two minutes, 'who am I then?'
My Mam nudged me. And I didn't like her nudging me and I didn't like him. I said, 'Psycho The Rapist!'
When I said that he looked at me like he was all shocked and surprised and my Mam put her hand to her mouth and whispered, 'Oh my God!'
'Psycho The Rapist?' he said, frowning at me as if I'd just said something really stupid. 'What could possibly lead you to believe that I'm called Psycho The Rapist?'
I pointed at the card that was stood on his desk and I said, 'Because that's what it says on there!'
He lifted the card up then and turned it round and looked at it. Then he turned it back so it was facing me and he pointed at the word with his finger like he was an infants teacher teaching 'A' for Apple and 'B' for Ball.
'Raymond, this word,' he said, 'it says, "psycho...therapist". "Psychotherapist". You say it. You try it, "psychotherapist".'
(Willy Russel, "The Wrong Boy")
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Īstenībā es jau sen gribēju kaut ko pacitēt no šī lielā, baltā, man mīļā kluča ar nosaukumu "The Wrong Boy". Gan jau vēl kādreiz kaut ko atcerēšos.
Mūzika: Sparks
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20:50 - accident
Tikko tajā pašā vietā, kur agrāk atradās māja, kura šopavasar nodega, notika tāda smuka avārija. Mašīna ar tīri labu ātrumiņu (kā pēc skaņas un vēlāk - arī kādas suni pastaidzinošas vietējās pensionāres komentāriem varēja noprast) nobrauca no ielas un pārbrauca pāri žogam, un tad kādus 10 metrus darīja visu iespējamo, kā rezultātā no mašīnas bija pāri palikusi pelēka masa. Cietušie laikam bija divi; redzēju gan tikai vienu vīrieti, kurš, spriežot pēc mašīnas atlūzām, izskatījās ļoti labi. Jautri, vienvārdsakot.
Bet jautājums tāds: kāpēc cilvēkiem ir tāda interese par šādām lietām? Par nelaimēm, negadījumiem un - vēl jo vairāk - cietušiem cilvēkiem?
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Sviesta Ciba |