It’s a little like backpacking all over again.
But I have a plan. It’s not a very nice one, but sometimes good medicine tastes bitter. And there’s usually something nicer that follows to take away the taste. I certainly intend there to be so. But she can’t continue like this—she needs to set down some roots. According to the assemblage of literature I’ve collected, at some point during the last few weeks of her pregnancy, she’ll slave to the biological need to nest in preparation for the arrival of the baby. I know she’s not keen on reading up on her pregnancy, referring to the books as horror stories, but perhaps she ought to. Because then, she might realise she doesn’t have a nest to bloody nest in!
If I had to title a show featuring my life, currently the most apt would beSex in the Suburbs.We’ve screwed in a cottage in Camden, a villa in Maida Vale, and over a sofa in South Kensington. We’ve had sex with a poodle staring, had a Bichon bark and leave the room in a cloud of disgust, and I’ve even fought off a Labrador when it tried to hump me as I humped the lovely Miranda. And quite frankly, I’m done.
Except it looks like tonight, I’ll be back to a tiny flat in Marylebone with two rabbits the size of overgrown corgis.
Perhaps I’ve judged Beckett too harshly for his own machinations when I have some of my own.
The waiter arrives, drinks are ordered, and we each turn to our respective thoughts for a while.
‘“There exists”,’ Griffin begins, in his best orator’s voice, ‘“for everyone a sentence that has the power to destroy you”.’
‘Are you waiting for a round of applause?’ I ask. ‘Or perhaps the thump of a gavel and shouts ofor-der?’ It sounded like a pronouncement a barrister might make, though if I hadn’t seen him in his wig and gown myself, I probably would believe he was a criminal before I would a criminal barrister.
‘No. I just read it in this article,’ he replies equably, tapping the arts section he appears to have pilfered from Beckett’s newspaper. ‘Do you think that’s true?’
‘Who said it?’
‘I did,’ Griff retorts idiotically.
‘Philip K. Dick, I believe.’ Beckett’s reply comes from behind his newspaper.
‘Which sentence is it for you?’
‘I don’t know.Talisker has gone out of business?’
‘Good one. Same as the Guinness factory has burned down.’
‘Ass, I don’t drink Guinness, so that wouldn’t be an issue. What about you?’ I ask, turning the question back to him.
‘Your brother was better in bed.’
‘That’s not soul destroying. It might true—’
‘Fuck off!’
‘Or not nice, but it’s hardly the kind of thing that would make you want to lie down and never get back up again.’
‘You don’t know how much I hate him. But that would never happen because his would beis it in yet.He’s probably heard that one already.’
‘It’s not the size of the boat but the motion in—’
‘Yeah, okay, tripod.’
What can I say? Rugby games and communal changing rooms don’t make for secrets.
‘But seriously, mine would be something likethe defendant is hereby sentenced to a maximum term of... ’ He visibly shudders. ‘Grim places, prison. I think I’d rather be hung.’
‘Hanged.’ I know what’s coming next before it even does.
‘I know what I meant. And if I’m going to prison, I want to be the big guy on top.’
‘Prison isn’t meant to be holiday camp,’ Beckett retorts, ignoring the rest. The paper lowers like a flag. He then folds it in a crisp and concise motion. ‘I never loved you.’
‘Whoa. That took a dark turn.’ Griff frowns discomforted, but Beckett’s expression doesn’t flicker.
‘Dark was my mother’s maiden name. Or perhaps it should’ve been. Anyway, she’s under the ground, and I’m on top of it.’
