I was in Valhalla, Hell's Kitchen last weekend and was trying to explain to a girlfriend of Uncle's the nature of the mutually exclusive yet symbiotic relationship that I had with Pat Rafter all through the 90's (whenever he won his game, something always went right in my life). She was a tennis fan and never missed the US open, so she understood. I was pouring out my heart but was forced to retire early as my voice gave out.
Then one of the girls Baz was with started asking questions about the incident of the untrouserly Francophone in the toilets in Camden. On a regular night
this is my party trick and my third drink vignette rolled together with my Magnum Opus. Once again, I found myself looking on from the sidelines as Baz stole my thunder. . .
I am by nature a scribe but it is also hard when I lose my voice. My plight in Valhalla and later on at Down the hatch, reminded me of Lorca's Mute Boy:
The little boy was looking for his voice.
(The king of the crickets had it.)
In a drop of water
the little boy was looking for his voice.
2 comments:
Aah yes, The NYC trip- what was lacking in time was made up in quality- three stooges, one benetton suit, two hats, one carpet-like jacket plus carpet-like shoes, one jacket handed-me-down and a lots of joie de vivre.
Aah, the joie de vivre and the bon homie are too much. . . dig the carpet like shoes because you can pretend that you woke up in them!
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