Tuesday, 1 September 2009
Coming briefly up for air.
"Shuurrup lad...So you finally gettin' to the interestin' bit of this story? Gettin' into this scatty bird I mean?" Dean smirked, leaning forwards, offering me a smoke.
I snapped to attention abruptly in my armchair, out of what felt like hibernation.
It felt like waking up from a dream, yet here I still was, awake and in the flesh.
I glanced at the clock on the living room wall - 10.00pm.
Christ, had I been talking for nearly two hours?
It didn't feel like that long.
Still, Dean wanted to hear the end of this particular tale and seemed attentive and appreciative enough of what I had been "going into one" about.
It was refreshing to have someone else to rant to, rather than a blank sheet of cheap lined A4 paper. I took the ciggie from his outstretched hand and sparked it up, relishing the nicotine hit as it raced through me. Then that horribly disorientating dizzy, swaying feeling struck me swiftly, the kind you only get when you've just had your "first smoke of the day".
"Cheers, mate" I hacked through a cloud of evil-looking yellow chemicals.
"So, go 'ead lad....You were just about to nail this bird then?" Dean said, his eyes slowly expanding in that strange, rabbit-caught-in-the-headlights-of an-on-rushing-truck way as he shuffled back in his seat.
You could weave a thousand stories into that face, it was so alive and unsettling.
It was facial expressions like that, that masters like Goya, Dali, Picasso and the likes would have killed each other over in a fight in the studio, to grab the oils and brushes and capture it on canvas first.
How could I not indulge him?
"Sorry yeah, I kinda lost track there again for a minute..... Apologies...Back to the story, Dean..."