SWB on Culture Night

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“I’m reading on Culture Night” I tell LSB in a fit of excitement. “Super, good for you!” he replies. He’s a good sort really, despite his aversion to cleaning. You’d think he’d be fed up listening to me, since he has to hear me wittering on every day, since that’s what you sign up for when you say “I do”. He also came down to the 10×9 event at the Black Box on Wednesday night to hear me telling my tale about Réunion Island. My brother and my mum came too, and some friends tried to join us but were turned away at the door, such was the turn out. They’ll be using the Waterfront at this rate. The Wise Old Elf didn’t make it. “Just as well” I said. I don’t think he’d appreciate the bit about the marijuana. Or the stealing. Wouldn’t go down well.”  “No, it was the bit about the wee goat,” says my mum. “He’d be demented, he loves goats. I don’t think he could stick listening to a story about you eating one.” He’s a sensitive soul, my dad. Partial to a bit of chicken or a plate of mince mind; he’s not exactly Linda McCartney. Still, we all have our foibles.

 

“So where is it you’re reading?” asks LSB. “Oh it’s very handy,” says I. “The Hallows on the Ormeau Road.” He starts to go a funny colour. I think he’s misheard. “You know, the gallery, with Dylan, the fella that made a fuss of the girls, then got marrIed in a castle in the summer, in a kilt?” (my children were obsessed with castles after having a chat with Dylan one day, and the small one is determined that she’s marrying her friend Sam in Ballygally. She says we can come if we want, which is big of her, since we know who’ll be paying for it).  “Of course I know Dylan, I’m worried because it’s an ART gallery and you’re not safe to be let loose anywhere that sells any class of a picture,” sighs LSB, looking forlorn. He’s still getting over the extension we built and art galleries aren’t good for his nerves, as I tend to run amok. Ginger Bistro is another disaster area as I tend to drink too much and get excitable, leaving the premises with a belly full of crispy squid and a lovely picture under my arm. Sometimes LSB clambers into the taxi after me looking utterly bemused as to what’s just happened.

He looks stern. “We go in, you read, and you look STRAIGHT ahead. I don’t care if there are paintings by Stephen Shaw or Seán Nichol,” he says, craning his neck to see the invitation. “You just focus on the task at hand and off we go.”

So that’s me told then. Spoil-sport. If you’re in the area, and fancy popping by, it should be very pleasant. (And if you see me eying up any art, try and distract himself).

 

 

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