On Friday I met an acquaintance that I had not seen in a very long time: one of those lapses of time that really gives the measure of change. A slim man in his twenties, now in his late thirties he was as trim as he had ever been but his hair and beard were speckled with salt and pepper and laughter lines had begun to plow a path around his eyes.
His character, in so far as I knew him, seemed unchanged: it was easy to see how a sardonic and mischievous sense of humour was largely responsible for his crows’ feet. His face bore witness to the old adage that by forty we have the face we deserve. I had met him in Dublin when he was the drummer in a band fronted by friends of mine but he now lives in Cork with his wife and two children. He no longer makes music, he now works in advertising.
At one point, after an extended and hilarious impression on Corkonian mores that could easily become a 30-minute stand up routine, he said he wanted to see “Inside Llewyn Davis”. “Nobody I know went to see that film,” he added, “I used to go to every single Coen Brother’s film, religiously. I don’t anymore.”
Later still, someone remembered that we were marking the 20th anniversary of Britpop. “Jesus, twenty years.” He looked up and sighed. For a moment, I had a vision of this man in a tight gold shirt behind his drum kit when we were all part of a community that revolved around music, literature, film, photography. A time when wearing a gold shirt was a plausible choice that spelt promise.
If you are fortunate in life, you will experience morsels of Eden: slices of brightness and promise that will only fit in their right places when life has also given you its inevitable taste of the fall. The sliver of life this acquaintance and I once shared with so many other friends was one of those morsels. It was Ireland in the 90s but for a couple of years life felt like a stroll in the park in the sunshine.
Today I bought a Sunday paper that sported a picture of Damon Albarn. He has just released an album, he now has a family; unlike my acquaintance, he still makes music. After buying the paper, I went for a walk in the sunshine down the canal replaying some of the memories that the unexpected encounter on Friday night had sparked.
I still go to see Coen Brother’s films and I had seen “Inside Llewyn Davis”. It’s a good film, it is also dark, damp, cold, and a deep shade of blue. A song played in my mind as I returned to my house trailing the sun this afternoon: “Parklife”. “Parklife” is the perfect soundtrack to a day like today, warm, innocent, and full of brightness; a song drenched in the cherished unreliable sunshine of the British Isles.
When I was nearing the house at the close of my walk, I heard the chiming of an ice-cream van and, for the first time this year, it fell into place.
A Fistful of Olives 