Do you like Bartók?
Well no, not really, I find it’s often hard to make oneself heard over the jukebox. Why do you ask?
What?
Give it a minute. Are you there? Good. Hello. I also like to imagine an elderly gentleman going into a record shop in Glasgow and tentatively asking an assistant:
Do you have any Bartók?
Why yes, Sir, but not very much. Ahem....[clears throat]....."you spill ma pint, ya wee fanny?"
What?
Yes, these things shouldn't appeal to me. Or to anyone much at all, really, but there we are. Unrealistic dialogue holds a fatal attraction.
Sorry, but I came across the above exchanges whilst going through some stuff and so, in the absence of having anything sensible to say - what's to say, after all? Ireland is stormy and flooded; I met a lovely dog on the beach yesterday; Jerusalem may be a problem; I feel loss and relief having come to a decision (you pushed me too far at the wrong time, well done); Ayer’s revised principle of verification isn’t in the news again; my new shoes arrived in the post (you kind of know you've taken a wrong turning somewhere in life when your shoes arrive in the post); I’m home from Edinburgh, back in the hills of Ireland, cultivating a rustic image and frothing like a depressed Nazi (Heidegger chic), and Scotland beat Australia at rugby - I decided, as ever, to aim low.
I’d like some of those, please.
Small, medium, large, extra large or simply extraordinary?
Four packs of simply extraordinary, please.
Marry me.
Deal.
Hmm. You’ve got be quick, I find, in these unrealistically snappy and childish dialogues or you may just miss out on the chance of marriage. But would you actually want to marry a lassie who sold Speedos from the back of a van?
[No.13 in a series of 13 too many]
