Today was such a grey day that I did something out of character and skipped my lectures. I sat in a park instead and finished "Giovanni's Room" which didn't really make the day any happier to be honest. Such a bitter, painful, amazing book.
I just walked around and sat on a tramway and felt quite detached, trying to find detached music on my ipod which was an impossible task because indiepop is useless as soon as it's detached, all they've got is their enthusiasm! Then suddenly I was home and so were my brothers and there was food and dancing and playfighting and politics and all was well again. Sometimes home is the only thing that's real, isn't it?
The other day I watched posh kids. Two posh law students talking to each other with cigarettes in their hands, one of them reminded me of my father when he was young, or how I suppose he or maybe his friends must have been like, posh but then not really. Later we sat in a garden drinking coffee and there were all those boys from the nearby boy's school which my dad attended back in the day. They were revising for the final exams, about to graduate, and my father told me what it had been like for him at school, how there used to be real rebels in his catholic boy school, one of the few all-boy-schools still around. "Those rebels back then at least really looked different, not like today. Long hair. Dirty. Listened to David Bowie." He used to hang out in cafés, skip school to do that. His past seems so real, so present, infinitely more exciting than my past really even though from what I can gather he used to be rather shy, really in love with dead languages by the age of sixteen.