Not very rock.   Leave a comment

The other night Phil and I got engrossed in an earnest debate about gender politics and we must have lost track of time because he left quite late muttering about how I ought to learn to fuckin’ drive and when I woke up the next morning I discovered I had a really, really big hangover. Then some lady phoned out of the blue to see if I wanted to take Syd to a birthday party for a tiny colleague of his and we went to Sainsbury’s to get a shit birthday present that we didn’t even wrap and had a fried breakfast that was supposed to be a cure for me but just seemed like some sort of inhumane poison that I probably deserved. Then I had to pound the pavement hurriedly through the meagre August heat and humidity to get there on time and I arrived late and smelt bad. The party was being held in a public park because birthday-boy’s family had the builders in. In case of rain the Mum had pitched two small tents on the grass. Soon it began to rain and then hail very heavily and the kids had to squeeze into one tent and me and the Mums, one of who is heavily pregnant (like, due) and kept taking deep, measured breaths and rubbing her bump, had to squish together in the other. It was one of those epiphanies of awkwardness that The Trickster referred to in describing the contents of this diary, and that was before they started asking me about what instrument I played and so on. Oy vay!

Whilst we’re veering dangerously far away from the subject of rock ‘n’ roll I ought to tie up that loose end regarding Syd’s schooling. You may recall that a postcode lottery had left the lad set to go to a primary school that was not universally held in high regard, but still with some sort of chance at getting into our favoured school if anyone on their list dropped out. Well, they must have done because we got the good news while we were holidaying at our mountain retreat in Andalusia, somewhat fittingly. I felt like such a cunt, but such a grateful cunt. This means he will go on to a decent secondary school as well, and so to me this is the poverty-stricken bohemian version of getting my kid into Oxbridge.

Rasta.

Posted August 26, 2005 by peteum2013 in Uncategorized

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