A fiver says he’ll wear the pink one.
So went a conversation at the table quiz last week before I arrived wearing a baby-blue number, tee-shirt that is. Tee-shirt in its broadest sense. Not a garment for a Marlboro light pull-through, not fitted or with matching 501s. No, fashionable in a treble XL comfortable way, like only a fat fucker gets away with. The other one isn’t pink either, cerise or fuchsia dependant on mood, my mood.
Get way from me Dad.
It’s Gay Dad.
Are you cirius?
Comments from my less then enlightened kids, but I needed colours brother. Life was dull, a total gray out for a while there. The monotony thing mixed up with melancholy man, and then I saw those jelly babies in Foot-locker, four for twenty quid, how bad. Real sizes too, man sizes, XL to XXXL, and in six different colours. So I’ve bought twelve so far and rotate them, as my mood takes me. I’m never melancholy in cerise.
That colour thing, gray thing, that black and white Christian Brother fists like clubs thing, and when I met Boomie last Friday night at a glass breaking, tight jeans and mini-skirted eighteenth birthday party, we remembered why he’d been mitching for six months all that time ago. Boomie, Ferret, Whacker and Chili all running scared from Wart. That’s hopefully a very dead Christian Brother Vaughan folks, Ardscoil Rís, Limerick, circa. 1970’s, abuser of children, killer of dreams. Concussions were common , Boomie partially deaf thirty five years later. Wart would make us kneel down, face a wall, cower and wait, while he picked his own special time to smash you, across your head and into the wall. The smart stayed down, the defiant went deaf. Blood, concussion and disbelieving parents who sent you back the same afternoon. What colour is malignant?
Omar Shariff, our seven year old charmer tells me that he likes my tee-shirts and then giggles kaleidoscopically with his brother. That’s the giggling colour, swirly rainbow dropping reds, oranges, pinks and greens, infectious finger painting messy deep helpless belly laughing, and Omar Shariff has it in spades.
Dad, you smell
Like a flower
That’s been peed on
By an angel