Last night I met David at Quaglinos for drinks. We told many scathing stories of the Green Hell (as Mash always called the area of the county where we grew up). He can’t really pronounce the name of his own hometown after something like thirteen years in the UK; nowadays it sounds like Ooh-la-la on his tongue.
The other people at the table laughed in wonderment, asserting more than once that the tales could not possibly be true. But they are.
At some point I spread my arms and said We weren’t raised for this – meaning not only the fancy bar, or swanky hotels, or travels through Europe. Not just the material security, fantastic jobs, wild adventures.
David said We weren’t raised to have aspirations.
This is true; we were not even told there was something elsewhere to desire.
Later in the midst of one of my more cracked anecdotes I tossed off the aside That was before I decided to be friendly, charming, and have feelings and one of my companions stopped me.
That, he said, should be the title of your next book!