Edited by Jim McCrory, Wednesday, 12 June 2024, 11:35
The Incongruity of
Self-Awareness
I was six years old. You had this
routine. Every Sunday at 11am you would come round the back of my tenement
building and stand on a soapbox. Wearing your bowtie and Donkey Jacket, you
looked like a music hall artist. You took a swig of wine and sang Mario Lanza’s
Be My Love, a favourite song of my grandfathers. And every week, when
you finished, my mother would open her purse, throw out some coins, close her
purse and say, ‘why doesn’t that bloody man not sing something new?’ Whilst
wiping her eyes.
The Incongruity of Self-Awareness
The Incongruity of Self-Awareness
I was six years old. You had this routine. Every Sunday at 11am you would come round the back of my tenement building and stand on a soapbox. Wearing your bowtie and Donkey Jacket, you looked like a music hall artist. You took a swig of wine and sang Mario Lanza’s Be My Love, a favourite song of my grandfathers. And every week, when you finished, my mother would open her purse, throw out some coins, close her purse and say, ‘why doesn’t that bloody man not sing something new?’ Whilst wiping her eyes.