The Last Fold
And so we say that we've got to share a night of booze in our lifetime. If it were anyone else who says that, I would have raised my eyebrows. But you -- have I told you that you remind me of Danny in Grey's Anatomy? -- I believe, and set aside a night in secret.
The way I did three years ago, almost, by the pavement.
My father asked, "Who's that?" "Can that be a lit PhD student? Cause he looks like he owns a pub or something."
Not too far off, you do want to own one someday, don't you? When the center does not hold . Single Malt.
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Them two brought a bottle of wine each. I say, bring your shoes in. We've had a dinner a la comparative lit style, i.e. mashed up, as long as it tastes good.
They spoke of Sid, the Sid once of Pink Floyd and of building an inflatable Disneyland DIY- style, with Damien Hirst as collaborator putting in his stuffed dead animals. I suggested making frozen bananas dipped in dark chocolate sauce in micky mouse shapes. "Thin-day hamburgers, we'll call them."
They snorted when I asked if they had watched the Monty Python World Cup match.
"It's like asking us if we've had heard the Beetles!?"
I begged for a photo and was given one. RB had his hand around his chin while JWP just looked happily red with his colourful shirt. The twenties was when one's got his suicide attempts and the other the mad partner in the farmhouse. The cat, however, remained. The cat who could meow to Alexander Pope as she can to The Who.
How would I ever get by without? Now, that's one idea that one cannot possibly assess.