Itās years before 2021. Life is good. Youāre in the Algarve. Your legs look even paler underwater as you sit at the edge of the pool with your Irish pal, who youāve bonded with as your and their families are the only ones around this resort who seemingly arenāt English. One of the English kids runs past you, wrapped in a Union Jack towel, until she reaches her parents, who look like this:
But obviously they are in swimwear, not suited and booted, so you can see his arm tattoos of some football teamās crest, āRIP Dadā written in cursive, and the names āPoppyā and āDominic,ā which you immediately know refer to his children, as though he might forget them.
āMummaaaay, can Oiy get an oiyce-cream?ā the little girl asks, making you shudder.
āNo, Poppy,ā the lady says, but her accent makes it sound more like puppy. āYouāve uwhlready had one this muwhning.ā
āLeh āer āave one, Helen,ā the manās voice answers. āWeāre on āoliday, aināt waaay?ā
āFoine, Mahk,ā comes Helenās significantly posher reply. āHehyuh, Poppy, take Mummyās puwhse. But get one fuh Dominic, too.ā
You meet your Irish palās eyes. Neither of you say a word, but with a simple nod to each other, you both know thereās no going back. Youāve been radicalised at the tender age of 11.
the way I've had this exact experience. it's echoing in my mind...matty and lottie, aged 8...those wee caps with the neck fabric...the kiddie wetsuits...it's all so clear now
titsay
gummygunk
2087
prguitarman
