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Sport 33: Spring 2005

Chapter 3

page 138

Chapter 3

My friend the postman is beginning to limp like a knackered dromedary. 'Seen anything decent recently?' I ask him.

'I haven't been to a film in months,' says Martin.

'No? My late father used to boast that he'd seen every movie made before the end of World War II.'

'Quite. Some people simply swear off the cinema. Give it up, like smoking.'

'They do. But retreat perhaps to the reeking wasteland of television.'

As well as being a traveller, Martin's an omnivorous reader. His long brown face is handsomely lined, and has about it something of sage Arabian dignity, the wisdom of the oasis. 'Television? I'll tell you who likes television,' the weathered Bedouin says.

'Who?'

'Poor old Johnny Bray. Poor old Johnny Bray has taken to knocking on my door from time to time.'

'Ah..'

'It's late in the afternoon and there he is. Can he come in and play the piano? Can he come in and watch Spongebob Squarepants?'

'He's apologetic, but.'

'He laughs so much it's almost a delight. He laughs so hard at Spongebob fucking Squarepants, it's almost a pleasure to have him in the house.'