This summer, it has to be said, has been rather lazy for me thus far. Sure, I’ve been to London twice for various reasons, I’ve met a lot of new people and I’ve been hitting almost every open-mic since May, but during the daytime, I mostly sit in the sun and get lost in a book.
Now I’m not ashamed to admit it, I have read 50 Shades of Grey, and I’m now onto the sequel, Fifty Shades Darker (which, might I add, is arguably better written than it’s predecessor). I’m several books at once, but today I sat on the decking my father built at the top of our garden in suburban Liverpool reading Fifty Shades.
The patio doors at the back of the house are open, so I can hear my dad coming home and he walks through to the garden.
“What up, yo!” I yell, jumping up from my chair.
“What’s goin’ down, mofo!?” He responds with a smile, and we commence our secret handshake complete with chest bump.
“How was your day?” I ask, sitting back down and returning to my book. Molly, our dog, comes out to join us. Dad walks over to the washing line and starts unpegging the various articles of clothing and placing them in the basket. We engage in idle chit-chat.
“Oh, not bad, you know, the usual stuff. How about yours?” He stumbles, managing to narrowly side-step a forgotten pile of dog poo.
“Yeah, good, just reading and walking the hound”. I respond, turning my attention back to my book.
A few lines down, I spot something. I read the line again, to check I’m not imagining things, but I’m not. My eyes widen. I cannot believe what I’m seeing…
There it was. I shoot a suspicious and alarmed look at him. He’s now playing with the dog and squealing as the two of them roll about in the grass. I look back to the page. It’s still there.
“Say, Dad?” I venture, my eyes not leaving the page in the hope that if I stare at it long enough, it’ll disappear.
“Yes?” He answers absent-mindedly. Molly has his wrist in her toothy grip. The panic begins to rise in my throat.
“You err..haven’t been up to anything…er…unusual, lately, have you?” I ask with extreme hesitation. My pulse races. God, there’s no way, it just can’t be…
“What are you on about?” He shoots me a funny look and dismisses the accusation. He notes the title of my book. “You know, you should read more historical novels, never mind that drivel..”
I’m speechless. Ever been in the middle of…you know…doing the deed, and a family member pops into your head? Neither have I. But after that I had to put the book down for fear that I’d picture his face, or even worse…leather. I slam the book shut and throw it onto the floor. I turn my iPod up and scrunch my eyes up in a desperate attempt to drown out the images that threaten to invade my mind…
Luckily, that particular character has only one line in one chapter of the novel, so it could have been worse.