Wprawka - ale po angielsku

by koticzka

Otóż. Spróbowałam trochę z wlasnego, a troszeczkę z irlandzkiego punktu widzenia poruszyć problem śmieci w kontekście nastolatków. Bo mnie wkurzają, bo kurzą na schodach i ŚMIECĄ. To kurzenie mniej mnie porusza, chociaż uważam to za idiotyzm. Paliłam krótko - na studiach, rzuciłam, bo mi wolność bliższa niż uzależnienia. Czasem zapalę przy piwie - w pubie lub towarzysko na ganku u H. :) Dwa, trzy papierosy na rok? Moze nawet 5, jak doliczyć Xmas party, gdzie się ratuję przed tym tłumem, z którym na siłę decyduję się socjalizować (od lat bezskutecznie, no nie mamy wspólnego języka i już). Wow.

Za to dostaję piany na ustach, jak widzę Ajriszów rzucających śmieci na ziemię. Wtedy wychodzi z ukrycia ZŁA KOTICZKA. Taka, dla której robi się wielkie tablice ostrzegwacze na ogrodzeniu.
Niech sobie świnią u siebie.
Nie utożsamiam tego kawałka z moim miejscem, ale chcąc-nie chąc to jest mój DOM. Choćby i tymczasowy (kto wie, co przyszłość przyniesie, plany były tak straszliwie inne, a wyszło jak jest).
Przypomina mi się ten kawał o żabie na bagnach. Siedziała on na liściu, a tu facet szedł, plump - wpadł w bagno i tonie. Błoto mu już zalewa usta, miota się, a żaba się gapi, bo co ma robić.
- Co się gapisz? - wybulgotał facet, plując błotem.
Żaba nic.
- Spierdalaj!
Żaba nic, nawet się nie obruszyła na wulgaryzm.
Facet utonął, błoto go zakryło, uspokoiło się.
A żaba patrzy na to, kontempluje i tak do siebie mówi, wzruszając ramionami (mimo zrośniętych kości, jak to u płazów)
- Co się gapisz? Spierdalaj? Przecież ja tu mieszkam.


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Morning Mess

Lucan Village.
A nice, green, family friendly living space. A bit boring sometimes but it’s all right, overall, and the buses are there.
You head towards your bus stop and head towards St. Mary’s. You spot them from the distance, a bunch of giggly girls, not that noisy as for what teenagers can be. Probably nicely made hair, probably a bit of make up, hard to be a teenager these days – their colleagues are so demanding and merciless. You approach them and – yes, you could expect it – they are smoking. Obviously. It was not so long ago so you remember it yourself.
Bad habit. BAAAAD, bad habit. OK, you did quit only last year and for the bet but admit it, the chewing gum is so much cheaper and Friday pizza tastes so much better now. Not to mention you got new, deeper breath. And a fresher one, as Someone noticed recently and this was somehow so much rewarding!
Health aside (be fair, it was not for health when you quit, at least initially) – who sells them cigarettes? Do they sneak it from smoking parents? First thing to do to compensate child benefit cuts in the family budget (and perhaps cuts in the smoking teenagers’ pocket monies).
OK, a teenager’s life is not easy but there was mummy – she would tell you what to do, not to worry, or at least she would tell you off and you knew what was good, what was bad and where you were standing. And then again she would clean your room. Even if it was at the cost of another row, she’d pick up all rubbish, fold the clothes and put the stinky socks to the laundry, this is what mothers do, isn’t it? Even this quarrel with your dad the other day as if he was doing all the cleaning. OK, he did some, good man, very democratic, on can say – or what’s the word, never mind. Yeah, it was good days when you did not need to hope for Caoimhe’s mercy to help you after last Saturday’s party, gee, this was a skip! Cans, wrappings and cigarettes everywhere. And even in the garden. You COULD sweep it under the bush or just leave but… well, it IS your home. You fancy a bit of mess here and there but it is your mess. Your personal stamp on the space you live in. And not too much, you have enough dignity not to live in the skip. Or do you. Yes, you do. And your new friend, Bob-Next-Door who popped up then, you did not know he is so much of the laugh, will chat to you about Arsenal again. Or his tidy garden.
Not like here, on these steps. How can they even stand there, empty cigarette boxes and stubs everywhere and the stench! Ex-smokers have more sensitive smell. You hold back the urge to tidy up the place and collect the rubbish to the empty bin just next to them. Finally you are not at home, just left…
Wait.
It is your home. This IS your home, you leave here, you have your post delivered, you have just had a party last week and you pay for it! Or you will be but you do not want to think about the politics the very first thing in the morning. You’d rather stay at home anyway, wandering around in sloppy slacks and socks. Stay at home as long as you can, far from all big, important issues, global crisis, politicians, protests and traffic jams, oh, the traffic jams!
So. Someone’s else’s kid arrived to your home and makes it filthy. And you did not even invite them for a party, which might be an excuse to drop all the junk and leave carelessly behind, as written in the usual party scheme!
And who’s gonna clean it now? Your council??? Are you kidding me?! They cut even salaries how can they send you a man with equipment! Perhaps the neighbours will gather again and you can come back from work excused you did not participate? Your mummy would not do the job, either, but there would be a fight, oh men – amen! Should you do that? OMG, your turning into your own parents!
Should you tell them off?
What will you say – smoking is bad for you and collect your rubbish?
Go to the school principal and put an official complaint? (but they are not ON the school-ground)
Call Garda? Where is the closest one by the way – did they close the one down the street?
Should you get their names and contact the parents?
Should you ignore and live in the skip?
Mummy! Daddy! Help! This bad kids are messing my home!