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Authors: Alexei Sayle
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was the other bloke,’ she said, happy to get off the subject of renting
audiovisual equipment.
‘Right …‘
Then he leant forward and staring into her eyes said very rapidly, ‘Now quickly
without thinking tell me what that show’s called right now!’
‘Film
1988!’ she shouted, then was silently surprised at
what she’d said.
‘Exactly,’
replied Patrick, leaning back, his air of wisdom slightly spoilt by the
squeaking and squealing of the chair. ‘But it’s not 1988, is it, Harriet? It’s
2006, isn’t it? That’s what the show’s actually called: Film 2006.’
‘You’re
right …’ Harriet responded slowly then asked wonderingly, ‘So why would I say
1988?’
‘Because,’
he stated, ‘that’s when you were happiest, in 1988. Everybody always shouts out
the year when they were happiest. Do you know what year I’d say?’
‘No,’
she replied, though she could guess.
‘Two
thousand and six,’ he said smugly. ‘I’d say Film 2006 That’s what I’d
say.’
‘Because
you’re incredibly happy right now?’ Harriet asked sarcastically. Then,
attempting a joke, ‘Because you’re here with me?’
‘No,’
he said, ‘of course not, not at all. But I live in the moment, do you see?’
‘Right.’
‘So
what were you doing in 1988?’ Patrick asked the fat woman sitting in front of
him, sweat still sparkling on her forehead like industrial diamonds.
She
thought about it hard, screwing her face up before finally saying in a wistful
voice, ‘I was twenty years old in my second year of college just outside London . You got a full grant back then, I
lived on campus, in the hall of residence. There seemed so many possibilities
and …‘ she trailed off.
‘And
what?’ he asked.
‘And I
wasn’t fat.’
‘Now remember you’re not
allowed to smoke those filthy roll-ups,’ Helen said.
‘Of
course not,’ Harriet replied indignantly.
It was
the night after her first session with Patrick. Harriet had walked to her
sister’s house, staying firmly on the pavement away from the threatening
hulking gloom of the park. The route took her past rows of housing running away
from the park on tree-lined streets. There was a smattering of spiky Gothic
villas, Edwardian semis, artisan cottages, but mostly identical three-storey
Victorian terraces built of London stock brick. Behind iron railings set in a low wall there was a
huge, grey-brick, late nineteenth-century charitable housing estate called the
Watney Trust Flats where Patrick lived. Then she arrived at her sister’s house,
a villa with twin bay windows facing the park.
Harriet’s
limbs ached horribly and she couldn’t raise her arms above her shoulders, all
of which she took to be a good sign. Helen and Toby were getting ready to go
out, just as they did five or six nights a week.
Helen
was worried they were going to be late but she forced herself to sit on the
couch and let her sister talk about this strange Patrick, one of a long line of
oddities she’d found for herself over the years. He didn’t sound up to much but
she always went out of her way to encourage Harriet to spend time with anybody
who wasn’t Lulu and Rose whom she considered a pair of unsuitable, drunken
harpies. Her opinion of these two women was coloured by the fact that Toby had
lived with ‘that mad bitch Lulu’ as she described her in a big flat above a
vacuum cleaner shop in Enfield for all of their first two years of college.
‘He’s
actually lived all his life round here and his parents and grandparents too,’
Harriet said. ‘Isn’t that amazing?’
‘Mr
Sargassian’s been here since the 1970s,’ replied Toby, entering the room
buttoning up his shirt.
‘Yes,
Toby, but not since the 1870s or whenever like Patrick’s family,’ she stated
emphatically.
‘No, I
guess not …’
‘I
mean,’ Harriet continued, ‘look at everybody we know round here, none of them
is even from London . They’re
all from the north like us, or
audiovisual equipment.
‘Right …‘
Then he leant forward and staring into her eyes said very rapidly, ‘Now quickly
without thinking tell me what that show’s called right now!’
‘Film
1988!’ she shouted, then was silently surprised at
what she’d said.
‘Exactly,’
replied Patrick, leaning back, his air of wisdom slightly spoilt by the
squeaking and squealing of the chair. ‘But it’s not 1988, is it, Harriet? It’s
2006, isn’t it? That’s what the show’s actually called: Film 2006.’
‘You’re
right …’ Harriet responded slowly then asked wonderingly, ‘So why would I say
1988?’
‘Because,’
he stated, ‘that’s when you were happiest, in 1988. Everybody always shouts out
the year when they were happiest. Do you know what year I’d say?’
‘No,’
she replied, though she could guess.
‘Two
thousand and six,’ he said smugly. ‘I’d say Film 2006 That’s what I’d
say.’
‘Because
you’re incredibly happy right now?’ Harriet asked sarcastically. Then,
attempting a joke, ‘Because you’re here with me?’
‘No,’
he said, ‘of course not, not at all. But I live in the moment, do you see?’
‘Right.’
‘So
what were you doing in 1988?’ Patrick asked the fat woman sitting in front of
him, sweat still sparkling on her forehead like industrial diamonds.
She
thought about it hard, screwing her face up before finally saying in a wistful
voice, ‘I was twenty years old in my second year of college just outside London . You got a full grant back then, I
lived on campus, in the hall of residence. There seemed so many possibilities
and …‘ she trailed off.
‘And
what?’ he asked.
‘And I
wasn’t fat.’
‘Now remember you’re not
allowed to smoke those filthy roll-ups,’ Helen said.
‘Of
course not,’ Harriet replied indignantly.
It was
the night after her first session with Patrick. Harriet had walked to her
sister’s house, staying firmly on the pavement away from the threatening
hulking gloom of the park. The route took her past rows of housing running away
from the park on tree-lined streets. There was a smattering of spiky Gothic
villas, Edwardian semis, artisan cottages, but mostly identical three-storey
Victorian terraces built of London stock brick. Behind iron railings set in a low wall there was a
huge, grey-brick, late nineteenth-century charitable housing estate called the
Watney Trust Flats where Patrick lived. Then she arrived at her sister’s house,
a villa with twin bay windows facing the park.
Harriet’s
limbs ached horribly and she couldn’t raise her arms above her shoulders, all
of which she took to be a good sign. Helen and Toby were getting ready to go
out, just as they did five or six nights a week.
Helen
was worried they were going to be late but she forced herself to sit on the
couch and let her sister talk about this strange Patrick, one of a long line of
oddities she’d found for herself over the years. He didn’t sound up to much but
she always went out of her way to encourage Harriet to spend time with anybody
who wasn’t Lulu and Rose whom she considered a pair of unsuitable, drunken
harpies. Her opinion of these two women was coloured by the fact that Toby had
lived with ‘that mad bitch Lulu’ as she described her in a big flat above a
vacuum cleaner shop in Enfield for all of their first two years of college.
‘He’s
actually lived all his life round here and his parents and grandparents too,’
Harriet said. ‘Isn’t that amazing?’
‘Mr
Sargassian’s been here since the 1970s,’ replied Toby, entering the room
buttoning up his shirt.
‘Yes,
Toby, but not since the 1870s or whenever like Patrick’s family,’ she stated
emphatically.
‘No, I
guess not …’
‘I
mean,’ Harriet continued, ‘look at everybody we know round here, none of them
is even from London . They’re
all from the north like us, or
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