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Day One · Read more · One Day. Read more · One Day · Read more · One Day. Read more · Day One · Read more · Day One. Read more · One Day. MACMILLAN READERS. INTERMEDIATE LEVEL. DAVID NICHOLLS. One Day. Retold by F H Cornish. MACMILLAN. Page 2. 7. PART ONE – THEIR EARLY. PDF, ePub, Mobi Download. Kacey Musgraves wanted the crowd to shout "haw" when she said "yee." Festival-goers shared footage of a fire burning at a shower block shortly after headliner Childish Gambino finished his.


One Day Pdf

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One Day. View PDF. Winner of the Galaxy Book of the Year book | Fiction | UK → Hodder and Stoughton. US → Vintage. 'I can imagine you at forty,'. David Nicholls ONE DAY. DOWNLOAD FULL PDF EBOOK here { https://tinyurl. com/y8nn3gmc }. One Day House Download Pdf, Free Pdf The One Day House Download. One Hundred Fourteenth Congress. (1) rules of the house of representatives one.

Probably got a little flow-chart somewhere orsomething. She sniffed. They settled again on the pillow. Forty orsomething.

She got this a lot, posh boys doing funny voices, as if there was somethingunusual and quaint about an accent, and not for the first time she felt a reassuring shiver ofdislike for him. She shrugged herself away until her back was pressed against the cool of thewall. All those possibilities. Fucking hell.

One-Day Resignation Letter Example

She peered up at him through her fringe as he leant against the cheapbuttoned vinyl headboard and even without her spectacles on it was clear why he might wantto stay exactly this way.

Eyes closed, the cigarette glued languidly to his lower lip, the dawnlight warming the side of his face through the red filter of the curtains, he had the knack oflooking perpetually posed for a photograph. He had one of those faces where you were aware of the bones beneath the skin, as if even hisbare skull would be attractive. A fine nose, slightly shiny with grease, and dark skin beneaththe eyes that looked almost bruised, a badge of honour from all the smoking and late nightsspent deliberately losing at strip poker with girls from Bedales.

There was something felineabout him: Gratifyingly his hair wasterrible, short at the back and sides, but with an awful little quiff at the front.

Whatever gel heused had worn off, and now the quiff looked pert and fluffy, like a silly little hat. Still with his eyes closed, he exhaled smoke through his nose. Clearly he knew he wasbeing looked at because he tucked one hand beneath his armpit, bunching up his pectoralsand biceps. Where did the muscles come from? Certainly not sporting activity, unless you 8.

Probably it was just the kind of good health thatwas passed down in the family, along with the stocks and shares and the good furniture. Handsome then, or beautiful even, with his paisley boxer shorts pulled down to his hip bonesand somehow here in her single bed in her tiny rented room at the end of four years ofcollege. Who do you think you are, Jane Eyre? Grow up. Be sensible. She plucked the cigarette from his mouth.

Any kids? You sound insane, she told herself. Do try not to soundinsane. So do you. I like wine and fags. The burnt out nightlights and desolate pot plants, the smell of washing powderon cheap, ill-fitting sheets. Nothing here wasneutral, everything displayed an allegiance or a point of view. Security, travel, nice food, good manners, ambition;what was he meant to be apologising for?

He watched the smoke curl from his mouth. Feeling for an ashtray, he found a book at theside of the bed. Theproblem with these fiercely individualistic girls was that they were all exactly the same. Another book: Silly bloody fool, he thought,confident that it was not a mistake he would ever make.

He hoped to be successful, to make his parents proud and to sleep with more thanone woman at the same time, but how to make these all compatible? He wanted to feature inmagazine articles, and hoped one day for a retrospective of his work, without having anyclear notion of what that work might be. He wanted to live life to the extreme, but withoutany mess or complications. He wanted to live life in such a way that if a photograph weretaken at random, it would be a cool photograph.

Things should look right. Fun; there shouldbe a lot of fun and no more sadness than absolutely necessary. Tonight, for instance, wasbound to have repercussions: He shouldprobably get out of here as soon as possible, and he glanced at his discarded clothes inpreparation for his escape.

With the possibility of sex anddrugs in a small yellow tin he felt hopeful again, and decided that he might stay a little longerat least.

In the bathroom, Emma Morley wiped the crescents of toothpaste from the corner of hermouth and wondered if this was all a terrible mistake. Forever probably. He washardly likely to ask her to go to China with him, and besides she was boycotting China. Dexter Mayhew. So why was she being so stroppy and sarcastic? Shesaw the dawn light at the tiny bathroom window.

Scratching at her awful hair withher fingertips, she pulled a face, then yanked the chain of the ancient toilet cistern and headedback into the room. She peered overher spectacles and pulled the mortar board down low over one eye. I like the jaunty angle. Now take it off and come back to bed. Thirty quid this cost me. Dexter grabbed at a corner but she swiped at him with the rolled-up certificate before sitting on the edge of the bed, folding her spectacles and shrugging offher gown.

He had one last glimpse of her naked back and the curve of her breast before theydisappeared beneath a black t-shirt that demanded unilateral nuclear disarmament now. Nothing was less conducive to sexual desire than a long blackpolitical t-shirt, except perhaps that Tracy Chapman album.

They drove back to Leeds. Dad thinks hotels are for toffs. He allowed her in, sliding one arm somewhat awkwardly beneath her shoulders,kissing her neck speculatively.

She turned to look at him, her chin tucked in. Cuddling was for great aunts and teddy bears. Cuddling gave him cramp. Best now to admit defeat and get home as soon as possible, but she was settling her head onhis shoulder territorially, and they lay like this, rigid and self-conscious for some time beforeshe said: Sorry about that.

What, together? There seemed little chance of that. They lapsed into silence again. They had been talking, and kissing, for the last eight hours, and both had that deep, wholebody fatigue that arrives at dawn.

Blackbirds were singing in the overgrown back garden. Ask me in the morning. Why, have you? Pleased with his answer, she curled closer into him. Nothing tomorrow. No deadlines, no work. She was in no way prepared. It was as if a fire alarm had gone off in the middle of the nightand she was standing on the street with her clothes bundled up in her arms.

How would she fill the days? She had no idea. The trick of it, she told herself, is to be courageous and bold and make a difference. Notchange the world exactly, just the bit around you. Go out there with your double-first, yourpassion and your new Smith Corona electric typewriter and work hard at. Change lives through art maybe. Write beautifully. Cherish your friends, stay true to yourprinciples, live passionately and fully and well.

Experience new things. Love and be loved ifat all possible. Eat sensibly. Stuff like that. And so far the first few hours of independentadult life had been alright. Perhaps in the morning, after tea and aspirin, she might even findthe courage to ask him back to bed. She wondered if there were condoms in the mustard tin.

February , Vince, a hairy-backedChemical Engineer who had blown his nose on her pillowcase.

Happy days, happy days. It was starting to get bright outside. Dexter could see the pink of the new day seepingthough the heavy winter curtains that came with the rented room. Careful not to wake her, hestretched his arm across, dropped the end of his cigarette into the mug of wine and stared upat the ceiling. Not much chance of sleep now.

Instead he would pick out patterns in the greyArtex until she was completely asleep, then slip out and away without waking her. Of course leaving now would mean that he would never see her again. He wondered ifshe would mind, and presumed she would: But would he mind? He hadmanaged perfectly well without her for four years. Why had he not noticed her until now?

He examined her face as she slept. She was pretty, but seemed annoyed by the fact. Her bottled-red hair was almost wilfullybadly cut, alone in front of the mirror probably, or by Tilly whatsername, that loud, large girlshe shared this flat with. Her skin had a pallid puffiness that spoke of too much time inlibraries or drinking pints in pubs, and her spectacles made her seem owlish and prim.

Never mind that, back to her face. There was a slight greasy sheen on the tip of her small,neat nose and a spattering of tiny red spots on her forehead, but these aside there was nodenying that her face — well, her face was a wonder.

Smooth, pink mottled cheeks, pillows of flesh that lookedas if they would be warm to the touch. Best to leave quietly, and noreunions. Move on, look to the future. Plenty more faces out there. But as he made his decision, her mouth stretched open into a wide smile and withoutopening her eyes she said: This bright new day that awaits us.

Saturday all day. Me and you, I mean? How are you? And how is Rome? I have enclosed a crudely photocopied leaflet so thatyou can see what a classy number it really is. I really, really think we canchange things, Dexter. I mean they had loads of radical theatre in Germany in the Thirties and lookwhat a difference that made.

There are four of us in the cast. When we started STC Sledgehammer Theatre Co-operative we werereally keen to set up a progressive theatrical collective with none of that ego-fame-getting-on-the-telly-ego-showing-off bullshit, and just do really good, exciting original political devised work.

But the problem with democraticegalitarian collectives is that you have to listen to twots like Sid and Candy. Poor old Sid can barely chew his curried beef slice, keeps missing his mouth. Whenthe time finally comes for her to put some clothes on and go on stage one of the kids usually wolf-whistles or something and in the mini-bus afterwards she always pretends to be really affronted andfeminist about it.

Am Iranting? Are you in love with her yet? I can see younow, giving her that look where you clench your jaw and play with your lips and ask about hercareeeeeer. Emma Morley turned the page face down as Gary Nutkin entered, skinny and anxious, and itwas time for the pre-show pep-talk from the director and co-founder of SledgehammerTheatre Co-operative.

In the doorway, Gary Nutkin cleared his throat; pale and razor-burned, the top-button ofhis black shirt fastened tight, a man whose personal style icon was George Orwell.

Gary continued. Interaction is great. Retaliation is not. Fifteen minutes, please! Sid began his nightly warm-up now, a murmured incantation of I-hate-this-job-I-hate-this-job.

Beyond him sat Kwame, topless and forlorn in tattered trousers, hands jammed inhis armpits, head lolling back, meditating or trying not to cry perhaps. Emma turned back to her reflection in the crackedmirror, plumped up the puffed sleeves of her Empire line dress, removed her spectacles andgave a Jane Austen sigh.

The last year had been a series of wrong turns, bad choices, abandoned projects. Therewas the all-girl band in which she had played bass, variously called Throat, SlaughterhouseSix and Bad Biscuit, which had been unable to decide on a name, let alone a musicaldirection.

There was the alternative club night that no-one had gone to, the abandoned firstnovel, the abandoned second novel, several miserable summer jobs selling cashmere andtartan to tourists.

At her very, very lowest ebb she had taken a course in Circus Skills until ittranspired that she had none. Trapeze was not the solution. The much-advertised Second Summer of Love had been one of melancholy and lostmomentum. Even her beloved Edinburgh had started to bore and depress her.

Living in herUniversity town felt like staying on at a party that everyone else had left, and so in Octobershe had given up the flat in Rankeillor Street and moved back to her parents for a long,fraught, wet winter of recriminations and slammed doors and afternoon TV in a house thatnow seemed impossibly small.

What happened to yourdouble-first? But every now and then, there was Dexter Mayhew. Large, s, with faded rugs and large abstractcanvases and ice in the drinks. Drinking gin and tonics in wicker chairs, looking at theview, she had thought of The Great Gatsby. Had she really satat their table, eating their food and calling his father a fascist?

That night she lay in the guestbedroom, dazed and remorseful, waiting for a knock on the door that clearly would nevercome; romantic hopes sacrificed for the Sandinistas, who were unlikely to be grateful.

And then he was off travelling again, broadening his mind yet further. So they were pen pals Letters, like compilation tapes, were really vehicles for unexpressed emotions and she wasclearly putting far too much time and energy into them.

In return, Dexter sent her postcardswith insufficient postage: Sick as DOG this morning. Happy days, happy days. It was starting to get bright outside. Dexter could see the pink of the new day seepingthough the heavy winter curtains that came with the rented room. Careful not to wake her, hestretched his arm across, dropped the end of his cigarette into the mug of wine and stared upat the ceiling.

Not much chance of sleep now. Instead he would pick out patterns in the greyArtex until she was completely asleep, then slip out and away without waking her.

Of course leaving now would mean that he would never see her again.

He wondered ifshe would mind, and presumed she would: But would he mind? He hadmanaged perfectly well without her for four years.

One Day One Choir for Schools

Why had he not noticed her until now? He examined her face as she slept. She was pretty, but seemed annoyed by the fact. Her bottled-red hair was almost wilfullybadly cut, alone in front of the mirror probably, or by Tilly whatsername, that loud, large girlshe shared this flat with. Her skin had a pallid puffiness that spoke of too much time inlibraries or drinking pints in pubs, and her spectacles made her seem owlish and prim. Never mind that, back to her face. There was a slight greasy sheen on the tip of her small,neat nose and a spattering of tiny red spots on her forehead, but these aside there was nodenying that her face — well, her face was a wonder.

Smooth, pink mottled cheeks, pillows of flesh that lookedas if they would be warm to the touch. Best to leave quietly, and noreunions. Move on, look to the future. Plenty more faces out there. But as he made his decision, her mouth stretched open into a wide smile and withoutopening her eyes she said: This bright new day that awaits us.

Saturday all day. Me and you, I mean? How are you? And how is Rome? I have enclosed a crudely photocopied leaflet so thatyou can see what a classy number it really is. I really, really think we canchange things, Dexter. I mean they had loads of radical theatre in Germany in the Thirties and lookwhat a difference that made. There are four of us in the cast. When we started STC Sledgehammer Theatre Co-operative we werereally keen to set up a progressive theatrical collective with none of that ego-fame-getting-on-the-telly-ego-showing-off bullshit, and just do really good, exciting original political devised work.

But the problem with democraticegalitarian collectives is that you have to listen to twots like Sid and Candy. Poor old Sid can barely chew his curried beef slice, keeps missing his mouth. Whenthe time finally comes for her to put some clothes on and go on stage one of the kids usually wolf-whistles or something and in the mini-bus afterwards she always pretends to be really affronted andfeminist about it.

Am Iranting? Are you in love with her yet? I can see younow, giving her that look where you clench your jaw and play with your lips and ask about hercareeeeeer. Emma Morley turned the page face down as Gary Nutkin entered, skinny and anxious, and itwas time for the pre-show pep-talk from the director and co-founder of SledgehammerTheatre Co-operative. In the doorway, Gary Nutkin cleared his throat; pale and razor-burned, the top-button ofhis black shirt fastened tight, a man whose personal style icon was George Orwell.

Gary continued. Interaction is great. Retaliation is not. Fifteen minutes, please! Sid began his nightly warm-up now, a murmured incantation of I-hate-this-job-I-hate-this-job. Beyond him sat Kwame, topless and forlorn in tattered trousers, hands jammed inhis armpits, head lolling back, meditating or trying not to cry perhaps. Emma turned back to her reflection in the crackedmirror, plumped up the puffed sleeves of her Empire line dress, removed her spectacles andgave a Jane Austen sigh.

The last year had been a series of wrong turns, bad choices, abandoned projects. Therewas the all-girl band in which she had played bass, variously called Throat, SlaughterhouseSix and Bad Biscuit, which had been unable to decide on a name, let alone a musicaldirection. There was the alternative club night that no-one had gone to, the abandoned firstnovel, the abandoned second novel, several miserable summer jobs selling cashmere andtartan to tourists.

At her very, very lowest ebb she had taken a course in Circus Skills until ittranspired that she had none. Trapeze was not the solution. The much-advertised Second Summer of Love had been one of melancholy and lostmomentum.

Even her beloved Edinburgh had started to bore and depress her.

Living in herUniversity town felt like staying on at a party that everyone else had left, and so in Octobershe had given up the flat in Rankeillor Street and moved back to her parents for a long,fraught, wet winter of recriminations and slammed doors and afternoon TV in a house thatnow seemed impossibly small. What happened to yourdouble-first?

But every now and then, there was Dexter Mayhew. Large, s, with faded rugs and large abstractcanvases and ice in the drinks. Drinking gin and tonics in wicker chairs, looking at theview, she had thought of The Great Gatsby.

Had she really satat their table, eating their food and calling his father a fascist?

That night she lay in the guestbedroom, dazed and remorseful, waiting for a knock on the door that clearly would nevercome; romantic hopes sacrificed for the Sandinistas, who were unlikely to be grateful. And then he was off travelling again, broadening his mind yet further. So they were pen pals Letters, like compilation tapes, were really vehicles for unexpressed emotions and she wasclearly putting far too much time and energy into them.

In return, Dexter sent her postcardswith insufficient postage: Sick as DOG this morning. Shortlyafterwards he had taken her to a Peter Greenaway double-bill, waiting until four hours inbefore reaching across and absent-mindedly placing his hand on her left breast as if adjustinga dimmer switch.

They made Brechtian love that evening in a stale single bed beneath aposter for The Battle of Algiers, Gary taking care throughout to ensure that he was in no wayobjectifying her. Then nothing, not a word, until that late-night phone-call in May, and thehesitant words, softly spoken: And Sledgehammer was to be a new kind of progressive theatre co-op, with shared intentions, a shared zeal, a written manifesto and a commitment to changingyoung lives through art. She packed her rucksack, said goodbye to her sceptical mum and dad, and setout in the mini-bus as if heading out on some great cause, a sort of theatrical Spanish CivilWar, funded by the Arts Council.

But three months later, what had happened to the warmth, the camaraderie, the sense ofsocial value, of high ideals coupled with fun? They were meant to be a co-operative.

I-hate-this-job-I-hate this-job, said Sid. Emma pressed her hands against her ears, and asked herself somefundamental questions. Why am I here? Am I really making a difference? What is that smell?

Where do I want to be right now? She wanted to be in Rome, with Dexter Mayhew. In bed. Three syllables. No need to hit me though. They lay in a tangle of cushions on the terracotta floor of his tiny room, having given upon the single bed as inadequate for their needs.

His room in theCentro Storico was dull and institutional, but there was at least a balcony, a foot-wide silloverlooking a picturesque square that, in a very Roman way, also functioned as a car park. Each morning he was woken by the sound of office-workers breezily reversing their cars intoeach other. But in the middle of this humid July afternoon, the only sound came from the wheels oftourist suitcases rumbling on the cobbles below, and they lay with the windows wide open,kissing lazily, her hair clinging to his face, thick and dark and smelling of some Danishshampoo: She reached across his chest for the packet onthe floor, lit two cigarettes and passed him one, and he shuffled up onto the pillows, lettingthe cigarette dangle from his lip like Belmondo or someone in a Fellini film.

He had neverseen a Belmondo or Fellini film, but was familiar with the postcards: They kissed again, and he wondered vaguely if there was some moral or ethicaldimension to this situation. Of course the time to worry about the pros and cons of sleepingwith a student would have been after the College party, while Tove was perching unsteadilyon the edge of his bed and unzipping her knee-length boots.

Even then, in the muddle of redwine and desire he had found himself wondering what Emma Morley would say. Even asTove twirled her tongue in his ear, he had conducted his defence: Besides, Emma was a long way away at this moment,changing the world from a mini-bus on the ring road of a provincial town, and what was allthis to do with Emma anyway?

He shifted his body to a cooler patch of terracotta, peering out of the window to try togauge the time from the small square of vivid blue sky. Goand revise. Test me now. Present continuous. Why not, hethought? I am twenty-four years old, financiallysecure, healthy. The attraction of a life devoted to sensation, pleasure and self would probably wear thinone day, but there was still plenty of time for that yet. How is La Dolce Vita? Well take them off, you look ridiculous.

Did you get thebooks I sent you? Primo Levi is a fine Italian writer. And how is teaching? That would just be so. Must go now.

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Bottom of page looms, and in the other room I can hear the thrilling murmur of ouraudience as they throw chairs at each other. Six months in a Transit on the M6 with a Desmond Tutu marionette on my lap. I mightgive that one a miss. In the meantime, I have to choose whether to sign-on in Leeds or sign-on in London.

Big red glasses, strident views, sideburns? Are youcoming back to London soon? Maybe we could be flatmates? Too late to scribble it out now, but how to sign off? Rather than arrive straightaway, Dexter took a moment to sit amongst thetourists on the steps of the Pantheon and watch as the waiter approached and picked up herashtray, startling her.

With no apparent idea what had been said, the waiter neverthelessgrinned and flirted back, then walked away, glancing over his shoulder at the beautifulEnglish woman who had touched his arm and talked incomprehensibly. Dexter saw all this and smiled. That old Freudian notion, first whispered at boardingschool, that boys were meant to be in love with their mothers and hate their fathers, seemedperfectly plausible to him. Everyone he had ever met had been in love with Alison Mayhew,and the best of it was that he really liked his father too; as in so many things, he had all theluck.

Often, at dinner or in the large, lush garden of the Oxfordshire house, or on holidays inFrance as she slept in the sun, he would notice his father staring at her with his bloodhoundeyes in dumb adoration. Fifteen years her elder, tall, long-faced and introverted, StephenMayhew seemed unable to believe this one remarkable piece of good fortune. At her frequentparties, if Dexter sat very quietly so as not to be sent to bed, he would watch as the menformed an obedient, devoted circle around her; intelligent, accomplished men, doctors andlawyers and people who spoke on the radio, reduced to moony teenage boys.

He would watch School-friends too, even the cool complicated ones, would turn into cartoons around Alison Mayhew,flirting with her while she flirted back, engaging her in water fights, complimenting her onher terrible cooking — the violently scrambled eggs, the black pepper that was ash from acigarette. She had once studied fashion in London but these days ran a village antiques shop, sellingexpensive rugs and chandeliers to genteel Oxford with great success.

She still carried withher that aura of having been something-in-the-Sixties — Dexter had seen the photographs, theclippings from faded colour supplements — but with no apparent sadness or regret she hadgiven this up for a resolutely respectable, secure, comfortable family life.

Typically, it was asif she had sensed exactly the right moment to leave the party. Dexter suspected that she hadoccasional flings with the doctors, the lawyers, the people who spoke on the radio, but hefound it hard to be angry with her.

And always people said the same thing — that he had got itfrom her. Even now, as she sat in her washed-out blue summer dress, fishing in her immensehandbag for matches, it seemed as if the life of the Piazza revolved around her. Shrewdbrown eyes in a heart-shaped face under a mess of expensively dishevelled black hair, herdress undone one button too far, an immaculate mess. She saw him approach and her facecracked with a wide smile.

Where have you been? What mischief have you been up to? We waited at therestaurant. College disco. Very What was that like? Was it fun? The heat, and his sandals werechafing. I thought it was beautiful, but Stephen was bored outof his skull. All that mess, columns just left lying around all over the place. I think he thinksthey should bulldoze it all, put up a nice conservatory or something.

Alison tutted. You ruined me. Pass the matches. This is my last one. Spill the beans, all the juicy details. No nice Catholic girl? What about that nice girl whocame to stay that time? Got drunk and shouted at your father about the Sandinistas. I liked her. Your father liked her too, even if she did call him a bourgeoisfascist. Not like those silly sex-pots we usually find at the breakfast table. Yes Mrs Mayhew,no Mrs Mayhew. I can hear you, you know, tip-toeing to the guest room in the night.

In fact I think she likes you. She smiled at him indulgently, andsqueezed his hand as it rested on the table. She nudged his arm. Shehung woozily on his arm. Journalism would mean grappling with difficultstuff like words and ideas, but he thought he might have the makings of a decentphotographer, if only because he felt he had a strong sense of when things looked right. He decided to try saying it out loud.

I apologise. Teaching Beatles songs to moony Nordic girls. Besides it gives me something to fall back on.

Theywalked a little further before he spoke. It would be good ifyou were prepared for that. It would do you good to be better equipped. A direction. A purpose. Some drive, some ambition. When Iwas your age I wanted to change the world. I wanted to talk to you about something else. Through the smoked plate glass window he could glimpse his father hunched ina lobby armchair, one long thin leg bent up to his knee, sock bunched up in his hand as hescrutinised the sole of his foot.

A little bit of Swansea on the Viadel Corso. Charming, just charming. While your father sits in a darkened room andpicks his corns. Somewhere expensive, my treat. You can bring me some of your photographs ofinteresting pebbles. His mother was smiling but frowning too, squeezing his hand alittle too hard, and he felt a sudden pang of anxiety.

Tell me now! Can I have your attention? Ifyou could listen? Our soup is that repeat offender, the sweetcorn chowder, and the maincourse is a very delicious and succulent fish burrito! A small, pale pink-eyed man with a degree in Business Management fromLoughborough, he had once hoped to be a captain of industry. He had pictured himselfplaying golf at conference centres or striding up the steps of a private jet, and yet just thismorning he had scooped a plug of yellow pork fat the size of a human head from the kitchendrains.

With his bare hands. He could still feel the grease between his fingers. Who knows, they may even get a prawnor two. The new boy. The staff watchedhim warily, weighing him up as if he were a new arrival on G-wing. Where does Scott find them? Fish burritos! Now,music please! Twelve timesa shift, twenty-four shifts a month, for seven months now.

Emma looked down at the baseballcap in her hand. The restaurant logo, a cartoon donkey, peered up at her goggle-eyed frombeneath his sombrero, drunk it would seem, or insane perhaps. She settled the cap on herhead and slid off the bar stool as if lowering herself into icy water. The new guy was waitingfor her, beaming, his fingertips jammed awkwardly into the pockets of his gleaming whitejeans, and Emma wondered once again what exactly she was doing with her life.

Emma, Emma, Emma. How are you, Emma? And what are you doing right this second? This letter comes to you from a downtown Bombay hostel with scary mattresses and hot and coldrunning Australians. My guide book tells me that it has character i. When will you stop trying to educate me, I wonder? Never I hope. It turns out that being bannedfrom Teaching English as a Foreign Language was the best thing that ever happened to me though Istill think they overreacted.

Morally Unfit? Tove was twenty-one. After all I pretended to be interested when you banged on about the PollTax Riots. Anyway, I showed some of my photos to this TV producer who I met on a train the otherday, a woman not what you think, old, mid-thirties and she said I could be a professional. Are you doing another play? Candy was nice too, much nicer than Send her my love. Are you still in that box room? Doesthe flat still smell of fried onions? Is Tilly Killick still soaking her big grey bras in the washing-upbowl?

Which brings me to my reason for writing to you. Are you ready? You might want to sit down. The official tour had brought them to the small,dank staffroom which overlooked the Kentish Town Road, packed already with students andtourists on their way to Camden Market to download large furry top hats and smiley face t-shirts. Or work here, come to that. Muchomucho loco. Management flip if you lose your baseball cap. New boy — still squeamish, thought Emma, watching him.

He had a pleasant, largeopen face beneath the loose straw-coloured curls, smooth ruddy cheeks and a mouth thathung open in repose. Not exactly handsome, but, well — sturdy. For some reason, not entirelykind, it was a face that made her think of tractors.

Suddenly he met her gaze and she blurted out: Got to pay the rent. Everyone who works here has a stroke. Waiter-stroke-artist, waiter-stroke-actor. Well, we all like to laugh. What, like a stand-up or something? What about you? What else do you do? I love it! Brace yourself. Here goes. And be aware that I have a lowish 2. Here it is. I think you think that the naturalway of things is for your life to be grim and grey and dour and to hate your job, hate where you live,not to have success or money or God forbid a boyfriend and a quick discersion here — that wholeself-deprecating thing about being unattractive is getting pretty boring I can tell you.

Failure and unhappiness is easier because you can make a joke out of it. Is this annoying you? I bet it is. Well I think you deserve more. You are smart and funnyand kind too kind if you ask me and by far the cleverest person I know.

And am drinking more beerhere — deep breath you are also a Very Attractive Woman. It wouldbe the gift of Confidence. Either that or a scented candle. In fact our whole generation is like that. This letterbuilds to a life-changing climax. Somewhere between the staff toilets and the kitchen, Ian Whitehead slipped into his stand-upact. Loud acid house played on the battered radiocassette as a Somalian, an Algerian and a Brazilian prised the lids off white plastic cateringtubs.

Next to this was pinned a large document, ragged at the edges, a parchment map of theTexas—Mexico border. Emma tapped it with her finger. No gold here, compadre, just forty-eight items, all the different permutations of Fajitas come on these red-hot ironplatters.

She drew attentionto the bucket at her feet. Handy if the heel comes off your shoe, but apart from that. She really ought to go. I like to just go home, comfort-eat, cry. Over his shoulder Emma could see the cooks watching, Benoit laughing with his hand tohis mouth. Try not toget it on your skin.

It burns. You should be here with me. In India. Follow these simple instructions. Let them find someone else to melt cheese on tortilla chipsfor 2. Put a bottle of tequila in your bag and walk out the door. Think what that will feellike, Em. Walk out now. Just do it. The night before get a train to Agra and stay in acheap motel. Next morning get up early and go to the Taj Mahal. Have a look around and atprecisely 12 midday you stand directly under the centre of the dome with a red rose in one hand and acopy of Nicholas Nickleby in the other and I will come and find you, Em.

I will be carrying a whiterose and my copy of Howards End and when I see you I will throw it at your head. We can live for months, Em, me and you, heading down to Kerala oracross to Thailand. Remember when we stayed up all night aftergraduation, Em? Moving on.

One Summer's Day (Spirited Away)

By the way, my mother has a theory about you and me, and ifyou meet me at the Taj Mahal I will tell you all about it, but only if you meet me. Sorry if this has annoyed you. The main thing is that I Dex and Em, Em and Dex. Taj Mahal, 1st August, 12 noon. I will find you! Love D. Heshook the cramp from his hand; eleven pages written at great speed, the most he had writtensince his finals.

Stretching his arms above his head in satisfaction he thought: He slid his feet back into his sandals, stood a little unsteadily and steeled himself for thecommunal showers. He was deeply tanned now, his great project of the last two years, thecolour penetrating deep into his skin like a creosoted fence.

With his head shaved very closeto the skull by a street barber, he had also lost some weight but secretly liked the new look: To complete the image he hadacquired a cautious tattoo on his ankle, a non-committal yin-and-yang that he would probablyregret back in London. But that was fine. In London he would wear socks.

Sobered by the cold shower, he returned to the tiny room and dug deep in his rucksack tofind something to wear for the Dutch medical students, smelling each item of clothing untilthey lay in a damp, ripe pile on the worn raffia rug. He settled on the least offensive item, avintage American short-sleeved shirt, and pulled on some jeans, cut off at the calves andworn with no underwear, so that he felt bold and daredevil.

An adventurer, a pioneer. And then he saw the letter. Six blue sheets densely written on both sides. He stared at it asif an intruder had left it behind, and with his new sobriety came the first twinge of doubt.

Picking it up gingerly, he glanced at a page at random and immediately looked away, hismouth puckered tight. All those capitals and exclamation marks and awful jokes.

Hesounded like some poetry-reading sixth-former, not a pioneer, an adventurer with a shavedhead and a tattoo and no underpants beneath his jeans. Did he really want Emma with him in India,laughing at his tattoo, making smart remarks?

Would he have to kiss her at the airport? Would they have to share a bed? Did he really want to see her that much? Yes, he decided, he did. Because for all its obvious idiocy, there was a sincere affection,more than affection, in what he had written and he would definitely post it that night.

If sheover-reacted, he could always say he was drunk. That much at least was true.

Help and Example Use

Then he headed off to thebar to meet his new Dutch friends. Shortly after nine that night, Dexter left the bar with Renee van Houten, a trainee pharmacistfrom Rotterdam with fading henna on her hands, a jar of temazepam in her pocket and apoorly executed tattoo of Woody Woodpecker at the base of her spine.

He could see the birdleering at him lewdly as he stumbled through the door. In their eagerness to leave, Dexter and his new friend accidentally jostled HeidiSchindler, twenty-three years old, a chemical engineering student from Cologne. Heidi sworeat Dexter, but in German, and quietly enough for them not to hear. Pushing through thecrowded bar, she shrugged off her immense backpack and searched the room for somewhere Bad-tempered,bloated on Diocalm, angry with the friends who kept running off without her, she collapsedbackwards on a decrepit rattan sofa and absorbed the full scale of her misery.

She removedher steamy spectacles, wiped them on the corner of her t-shirt, settled on the sofa and feltsomething hard jab into her hip. Quietly, she swore again. Tucked between the ragged foam cushions was a copy of Howards End, a letter tuckedinto the opening pages. Even though it was intended for someone else, she felt an automaticthrill of anticipation at the red and white trim of the air-mail envelope.Why am I here? Dexter could see the pink of the new day seeping though the heavy winter curtains that came with the rented room.

They lapsed into silence again. A direction. Saturday all day.

MOIRA from Olympia
See my other articles. I absolutely love gongoozler. I do fancy sharing PDF docs innocently .
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