Eleven
All my life I’ve hated Sundays, but this Sunday is a corker нечто потрясающее. There are loads множество of things I could do; I’ve got tapes to make and videos to watch and phone calls to return. But I don’t want to do any of them. I get back to the flat at one; by two, things have got so bad that I decide to go home—home home, Mum and Dad home. It was waking up in the middle of the night and wondering where I belonged that did it: I don’t belong at home, and I don’t want to belong at home, but at least home is somewhere I know. … My parents are OK, if you like that sort of thing, which I don’t. My dad is a bit dim тусклый, скучный but something of a know-all, which is a pretty fatal combination; you can tell from his silly, fussy вычурный beard that he’s going to be the sort who doesn’t talk much sense and won’t listen to any reason. My mum is just a mum, which is an unforgivable непростительный thing to say in any circumstance обстоятельства, except this one. She worries, she gives me a hard time about the shop, she gives me a hard time about my childlessness. I wish I wanted to see them more, but I don’t, and when I’ve got nothing else to feel bad about, I feel bad about that. They’ll be pleased to see me this afternoon, although my heart sinks замереть when I see that Genevieve is on TV this afternoon. … When I get there, the joke’s on me: they’re not in. I’ve come a million stops on the Metropolitan Line on a Sunday afternoon,…
