This episode of the Magpie Tales is a real Diller.
Summer is the cruelest of all seasons. Heat and ennui, woolens and tweeds banished to the recesses of the closets, movies with explosions instead of Edwardian interiors and muted emotions.
Prelude to the afternoon of a prawn, shrinking and shrimping in its tank before it is harvested. The sound of a cellist in the woods. How did she get there, and why are they serving champagne with spare ribs and macaroons? How did I suddenly become barefoot as I traverse this thorny path to the clearing and the banquet where a bandoneon player has now joined the cellist.
The deconstruction of self that is sometimes mistaken for aging. How did the past 20 years speed by in the span of just a week? At what point will I be mistaken for my grandfather or Uncle Walter? Perhaps I can paste one of their photos into my passport since by then I will no longer have resources to leave the country. Haven’t I always been an imposter anyway, claiming to love summer in order not to spoil it for those who do?
For now I think I will stay for this party as the musicians begin to play the national anthem of a fictional country