There's this woman I know. I shall call her A. She is a very nice person, who has never done me any harm. She used to work for Jimmy, and she is a complete basket-case.
In a nutshell she is an alcoholic and crack-addict who is a long term relationship with some bloke who is seriously bad news. The sort of bloke who has spent more time in prison than out. The sort of bloke who beeps the horn of the car he's stealing to draw one's attention to himself as a threat not to grass him up. She comes to our door, or detains Jimmy in a pub, full of her problems, never a concern about my or his problem. She served time for smuggling crack into Brixton Police Station when Jimmy's son was detained there - because Brixton Police station are well naive about smuggled drugs... As if. When she was inside we basically paid her rent on the promise of being paid back, which of course, never happened. His brother-in-law in Australia is praying for her and has tried counselling her problems. Mind you, he's praying for me, too, 'cos I'm such a heathen.
We bumped into her this evening. She's trying to get clean and kick the drugs. Suddenly we're best mates, exchanging phone numbers. We're going to go swimming and cycling together; she's from Paris so we're only going to talk French together. It might be a good thing for both of us, maybe, possibly, although Jimmy says don't tell her our business, or else the boyfriend will know when we're away.
You know, if I was sober, I probably wouldn't have done the whole phone numbers thing. There again, because of my upbringing. I'm pretty shit at the whole 'friendship' thing, so maybe it will do me good. Maybe I will get to speak French proper, rather than just having a crappy O-Level Grade A in it "J'habite au coin de la rue et pres de l'arrete d'autobus. Je suis sur le point de se mettre en route pour aller a Altrincham" Oh, I'm fucking good at French which I learnt by rote.
Unlike Italian O-Level, where we had to prepare three subjects. I chose la politica, la musica e il calcio. And the bastard examiner selected that I talked about La politica. "Sono un membro del Partito Socialista." I said.
And the examiner, bastard Clive G. Oh yes, I can remember his name to this day, asked why, as a socialist, I was a pupil at a grammar school. I couldn't have coherently answered in English, let alone Italian. WTF is wrong with Manchester United or Verdi? Or even Andreotti or Craxi, not Trafford MBC in Italian? I got a 'C', which is not bad considering the context, but I am ashamed of my 'C' (Fail Grade) at Italian. B at Latin; now that's the business. Marcus in horto est. Bellum bellum bellum belli bello bello belli belli belllos bellorum bellis bellis. Okay, I cheated, I cross-checked on the internet. Who would have bloody thought the internet would have removed the need to learn Latin Declensions by rote? What is the kudos* in knowing amo amas amat etc.or even more important, amo, amare, amavi, amatum when Google gives it to you, anyway?
Still, Latin was cool. We read Ovid. Ovid rocks. Ovid is the greatest writer ever. Especially if you're aged 15 or 16 and have been set excerpts from Ars Amatoria as a set text. Great because the thicko religious nutter parents didn't have a clue what is was about; those that did know, chuckled, assured that their daughters wouldn't be corrupted (note to Dr Caroline N: Hanging Dewlaps isn't obscene, it just always reminds me of you giggling; a woman with a wonderful filthy and chaste attitude to men and sex, hopefully an example she sets to her teenage patients today ).
Latin and Music, they were the subjects to study for utter depravity at a rather refeened Convent Grammar in mid-Eighties. Imagine if you will, being made aware of poems two thousand years old titles, in translation: Elegy IV: Ovid, His Mistress And Her Husband Are All Bidden To The Same Supper. He Gives His Mistress A Code By Which They Can Testify Their Love For Each Other, Beneath Her Husband's Very Eyes. When you are a pupil at a very refeened suburban provincial Convent Grammar School for Girls.
Bless 'em - people (specifically ex-Loreto Girls) might slag Loreto off but despite the repressive and ridiculous rules, the prissiness of certain teachers, and the unbreakable obsession with exams, in general it was a hoot, as they demonstrated their disdain for social niceties and their desire to corrupt and educate in equal measure.
I laughed out loud the other day reading a former schoolmate on the Underground. I believe that only a Loreto girl could publish, in the New Statesman, apropos of Schumann:
* Greek, natch
