How's the Pain?
“ The pavement of Boulevard du Front-de-Mer was drying in patches. The sky looked off-colour and the sea was the shade of a dodgy oyster. The wind was doing its utmost to get inside the shawl wrapped tightly around Rose’s chest.
‘It’s almost like being back home. The weather’s always like this in Belgium, even on a good day. We’re used to it, but you still get sick of it sometimes. You’ve travelled a lot, haven’t you, Simon?’ ‘A fair amount.’ ‘To hot countries?’ ‘Yes. You can get sick of bl...ue sky too.’ ‘What are you going to do, now you’re retired?’ ‘Nothing, like everyone else.’ ‘Oh, you mustn’t! You need to make plans. You could come and see me in Namur?’ ‘Why not …’ Yes, why not? Rose’s house was bound to be cosy. He could sit warming his feet in front of the stove, flicking through an atlas in search of an imaginary island. Rose would cook him chicory à la cassonade or au jambon. And then he’d die and she would stuff him, putting glass eyes in his empty sockets to make him look alive.MoreLess
‘It’s almost like being back home. The weather’s always like this in Belgium, even on a good day. We’re used to it, but you still get sick of it sometimes. You’ve travelled a lot, haven’t you, Simon?’ ‘A fair amount.’ ‘To hot countries?’ ‘Yes. You can get sick of bl...ue sky too.’ ‘What are you going to do, now you’re retired?’ ‘Nothing, like everyone else.’ ‘Oh, you mustn’t! You need to make plans. You could come and see me in Namur?’ ‘Why not …’ Yes, why not? Rose’s house was bound to be cosy. He could sit warming his feet in front of the stove, flicking through an atlas in search of an imaginary island. Rose would cook him chicory à la cassonade or au jambon. And then he’d die and she would stuff him, putting glass eyes in his empty sockets to make him look alive.MoreLess
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