Last Saturday afternoon, Maximus Decimus Meridius walked by me and down through our Tuscan meadow back garden, his hands palm down brushing the corn.
Or it might have been the eldest boy, wrapping and unwrapping himself in the drying clothes on the line, saying that he could feel and smell each of us, which is slightly pervy ‘cept he’s fourteen and in that sensorial, transition place.
I’m more than slightly jealous and though I was a world class athlete, lacking only talent, speed and coordination, it’s not this I deny him, it’s the sensorial, the alive and the emotion which I envy.
But I was world class.
At arriving on time, with clean socks and boots, and being a good domestique, with team spirit, tons of that. How I miss the tear squeezing winter greened, dressing room before the match, and the coach with his team list and us sitting, waiting and wanting,
Tog off, tog off, fuck off (pointing at me).
And give your boots to him (pointing at the hung-over but talented arriviste)
But he seems to have more.
The FAI are interested and that’s good for him, an emerging talent programme, his mother’s flair and speed but my ability to tie his shoe laces accurately.
There is no more drying until May 2011. The electric bill goes mad with the tumble dryer and the innovation of getting clothes arrives in a monsoon.