It's the 17th of May and I'm in England, feeling, as I usually do, the urge to make bitter comments to my uncaring surroundings about how I should be waving a flag and watching the russ going increasingly green and not in ENGLAND, WORKING. Which none of them will get because they all work on their own national holiday. It's one of those dull grey English days, too.
Thing is, the last 17th of May I spent in Norway was probably as good as it gets - it was the last year of high school, and I had not been particularly russish so didn't have a hangover, and I had finished all my exams but one and was wearing an amazing fifties dress, and we went about singing with uncritical enthusiasm and wore floral garlands in our hair and struck "look to the future" poses in all photographs.
Today that will be my little brother, though possibly with less flowers and more of a hangover. Which is also nice.
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Helt rett predikert: ingen blomster, svakt grønn, og med påmalt bart. Fineste russegutten.
Minste lille gutten holdt tale for dagen på skolen, og er nå på Tivoli; som hans klassekamerat diktet i årets obligatoriske utgave av diktskriving til 17.e mai (et dikt som f.ø. IKKE ble valgt ut til opplesning på skolen): .../is og skolefri/og spy på Tivoli/...
mamma
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