Holiday reading


This summer is creating the impression – entirely unfounded – that I do bugger all but hang around waiting for my next holiday. Because on recent showing, sure as eggs is eggs, another one’ll be along in a minute. Oh look, I’m off to Ibiza tomorrow.

I’m going with my cousin’s family (including 18-month-old goddaughter) and a couple of friends of theirs – one whom I hazily recall walking on her hands across a kitchen floor at about three in the morning, twice; the other I have never met but has just got divorced and is a ‘gas woman’. It should be great. A lot of red wine and salty jokes, I’m guessing. Brave Fred will be there with five women (counting little Lily) but he’s a toughie – he’ll be fine. Though there aren’t many men who would sign up for this, I’m thinking.

The dissertation fear is hotting up now, and I shall be going with a couple of books recommended by my supervisor to get me going. The bad news is that they are about space and place as psychological/abstract productions and the big cheese in this field is philosopher Henri Lefebvre (no, me neither). Three times the lecturer mentioned that Lefebvre is difficult, using the words ‘difficult’, ‘demanding’ and back to ‘difficult’ again. I was hoping for ‘dead easy’ and ‘piece of piss’ but I might be on the wrong bus for that.

So I shall be huddled in the shade, calamari white, wearing sunglasses and reading French philosophy. What a total TOTAL twat. Still, if I can gather about me a mawkish coterie of teenage Morrissey fans, drawn to my pallor and disaffected air, I shan’t consider my time wasted. Because beneath my seat, waiting to be whipped out to accompanying hoots, will be four cans of export-strength lager and an unauthorised biography of Noddy Holder. Whoo, c’mon KIDS!


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