dedalus Posted December 18, 2010 Share Posted December 18, 2010 (edited) Poor grandmama, she passed away at the age of ninety-something, leaving behind a house full of memories upon which the family shortly descended like circling crows, squabbling over the paintings, her gewgaws, the furniture. There was a darkly glowing Vermeer, two Rembrandts, some Hepplewhite consoles, and two whorls of canvas that were not altogether but almost Turner. Also a Constable. I came down in a taxi from the station. Sad that the old lady’s gone, said the driver, She were a good ‘un, I well remember her from the First Do: Faith and Freedom. And were you in that War yourself, I innocently asked, and he growled and spat, said he'd been thrown into capitalist wars throughout his fuckin life. A touch aggrieved, I held back on a large tip, thinking of my two dead uncles from the first show, but when I stepped out of that car I had no idea, let me tell you, of all that stood before me, hunched over in my tailored uniform, owlishly peering: I was no soldier, no real bayonet-thrusting Godblast you crazy person. The Regular Army, in my view, were gentlemen, not warriors, encompassing a collection of grumbling commuters plucked from cosy civilian jobs, resigned to typing the shit out of the enemy, in triplicate. Would you kindly wait until you are called? Silence, please, and some decorum. The tanks rolled over the charred steppes of Asia, the bodies burned in Treblinka and Maidenek, and all the while motorcycle messengers farted and backfired into Bletchley Park, where we typed and typed and, in a British way, quietly won the war. Edited December 20, 2010 by dedalus Quote Drown your sorrows in drink, by all means, but the real sorrows can swim Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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