I smoke a Marlboro. The Bahn Mi baguette salves a lunch. Gatwick is nicer than I expected. I am too tired to shop. I made a pin badge for a girl this morning and told her I was in love with her. I’m shaking under the air con. I drink a Diet Coke and all I can taste are saccharine bubbles.
This is the Year of the Knife
What does that lyric even mean? I play it, ponder it. Rewind it.
Here’s my excuse / here’s my excuse /
That I don’t any better
On the plane over I sit, or have sit next to me (you choose: this is as much your story as mine) some mothers who do their best to fill every vacant second with chatter. My annoyance ebbs and flows. They are not so bad, but then I think, wait: yes, they are. A sense of a lack of direction informs their chat. It is talk of many holidays, of skiiing, of husbands and curly haired children.
You baby boomers had it good huh? Affordable housing, secure pay rises, free education. You really pissed in the pot huh? I look around and my friends have wrinkles forming around their eyes and we are not married and have no children and we are either happy or sad or somewhere in between but the difference is that we don’t have the upstairs downstairs des res on good mortgage terms.
I think of baby boomers as I fly to the Canaries.
Yes I think of you too. This is as much your story, as it is mine. This is as much you as me.