Irvine Welsh - If You Liked School, You'll Love Work

— Listen, Ma, ah need a wee favour.

— Thoat that’s how ye might be here, she says tartly, gaun tae her handbag.

The alarm bells tell ays it’s time fir Alan Wells meets Davie Hulme in Fife Centrale, as a wee sprint tae yon moral high groond is called fir. — Naw, it’s no that, ah goes. — Ah need tae borrow yin ay they big pots fae yir kitchen.

She looks a bit relieved, then guilty, then perplexed. — Yir no plannin oan cookin soup, ur ye? Mind the last disaster whin ye tried tae cook soup? Still, ye wir jist a wee thing then, she goes wistfully. Then she looks up at ays wi interest. — No nestin ur ye? Nae sign ay a girlfriend?

Thinkin ay thon wee Jenni, whae left early this morning eftir ‘steyin the night’, ah goes, — Well, thir is a wee romance, fledglin ah stress, but, fledglin.

— When dae ah git tae meet her?

— Soon, if ye lend ays a pot, ah tell her. Aye, wee Jenni went right oot fir the coont last night. Apart fae thon wank wi the cum splatterin across the tight buttocks ay thon stretch black troosers, ah wis the perfect gentleman. Went back oot like a light masel eftir that yin. Heaven through a haze that smoky rid thit it might huv been the other place, ya hoor sor.

So wir doon in yon big kitchen n ah gits a hud ay this big cracker ay a pot thit’s hinging up oan the waw, ideal fir ma needs. Ah pits it ower ma heid n it fair rattles.

— Git yir heid oot ay thair, laddie, it’s fir food!

— Sorry, jist messin aboot, ah tells her in echo, then pills it oaf.

— What ye wantin wi a big stockpot like that? You openin a soup kitchen fir aw the deadbeats back in Cooden?

How soon they forget. A wee bit ay the sophisticated life in Dunfermline, n thir soon throwin thir loat in wi the bourgeoisie. This toon got airs n graces whin they opened that Costa Coffee. Ah kin jist hear her and the Wee Shite now — thon Wee Spermin Rhino — wi thir M&S cairryer bags under thir airms, makin a pit stoap before loadin up yon hatchback. Aye, thon stage whisper, ‘Make mine a large mocca!’ Ah’m no risin tae nae fuckin bait here, but. — Ask nae questions n ah’ll tell ye nae porkies.

She rolls her eyes and lights up a fag and takes a big drag oan it. — What ur you up tae, laddie?

— Nowt dodgy, n you shouldnae be smokin thaim, no eftir yir cancer.

She shivers at ma use ay the word. — It wis tit Big C, no lung Big C.

— But it’s no gaunny help.

She shakes her heid. — Ah reckon ah’ve hud aw the Big C ah’m gaunny git. The breast thing wis ma ain fault, gaun oan aboot gittin they implants aw the time.

— But ye nivir actually goat nae implants, did ye?

— Naw, but ah thoat aboot it, she looks skywards, — n it wis His wey ah mindin ays thit ah’d been thinkin aboot frivolous empty things. For that ah gie thanks.

The Wee Shite got her intae God-botherin years ago. — Mair likely it’s his wey ay mindin ye that ye bide in Fife, ah tells her, grabbin the pot.

She gies ays a sour pout at that yin, n nods tae the pot. — Well, jist you mind n bring it back!

— Course ah will, Ma.

— N in the same nick that ye took it away in. N if ye want a hat ah’ll buy ye a baseball cap, right?

— Aye.

— Mind then. Wee Arnie’s a stocktaking demon and Chef’s a stickler for cleanliness.

— Nae bother.

She sticks a bin liner roond it fir ays. — How ye fixed for money, son?

— Brassick, ah instinctively goes, although ah’m flush right now wi Cahill’s pey-oaf fir special services rendered and the auld ‘Egyptian fae Cairo’ hittin the mat yisterday. Even sorted masel oot wi a second-hand computer for a hundred quid fae Ideal Computers, next tae the toon hall. An investment awright: new(ish) technology, ya hoor.

She fishes oot her purse, lookin sharply at ays, thon flinty gaze fair mindin me ay the times back in the hoose whin its contents wid miraculously vanish. At the same time ah’d be aw emotional as ah stockpiled loads ay model-aircraft perts nivir tae be assembled. — Take this, son, and she hands ays two twenties.

— Ma, ah goes in gratitude, — ah dinnae ken what tae say, so ah’ll keep it short n sweet: awright.

N wi that ah snaffle the auld hoor’s guilty pey-oaf n pick up the pot n head back tae the Beath.

LARA HAS TAKEN my advice and come out with me to the leisure centre. At first she was reluctant, and she refused to remove her dark glasses till we got there. I half expected her to emerge from the changing room into the gym with them still on, but they’ve been replaced by blobs of foundation. We do a full session; weights, step class, Stairmaster and the exasperatingly boring treadmill. It takes ages as she vanishes to apply fresh makeup before every new activity. Thankfully, she’s knackered and has to stop long before I run out of steam, something we’re both silently aware of! Afterwards, we go to the tanning studio. I’ve been telling her about my dad going on about this new fucking horse, and Indigo’s moaning about it all the time as well.

We’re both a reddish brown, and when we get back to the leisure centre sit at the coffee bar with still mineral water. Lara plays with a choc-chip cookie she’ll never eat, and she’s another one who won’t let the new horse thing go, venturing, — Indigo has a point. You’ll need to get something anyway, as a companion to her pony. Therefore, it might as well be a horse you can ride and you like. If you leave it, that spoiled little bitch will probably end up getting another pony!

I bristle at that comment. Indy is a spoiled little bitch, but she’s our spoiled little bitch. The terms ‘pot’ and ‘kettle’ spring to mind.

— It’s too soon, I say harshly, — and I don’t think I want another horse—

Lara raises her eyebrows in exasperation. — At least come and see what this gelding’s like, she argues.

I shake my head and watch a girl I used to go to primary school with struggle with a pushchair, toddler and a tray with two plates of chips and two cans of Coke on it. — You’re not listening to me. I want to get out of this place. I’ve had it.

— It’s the same everywhere, Lara says. — You’re just feeling a bit down.

— No, I need to get out, I state emphatically. I can’t believe her great love affair with this town, county, country all of a sudden. All she usually does is criticise the place and everyone in it. In fact, I learned this all from her. It’s how we became friends! Whatever became of Virginia Woolf?

— But you’re an excellent jumper. With this new horse—

— No way. You know as well as I do that I’m a shite showjumper. I was just doing it to please my father, and to please you in some way, cause you’re my friend. I scrutinise her for a reaction to that statement but her caked and tanned face is Botox immobile. I smile grimly and tell her the truth that I, and everybody around me, needs to hear. — I love horses and I loved Midnight, but I am not, and never have been and never will be, a jumper. And you know why?

I look searchingly at her. She’s all ears and I really do believe she expects me to say something like ‘because I’m too fat’.

And she’s obviously irked when I tell her, — Because I simply don’t want to. I love horses, being out with them, riding them, but I’m just not interested in showjumping. I’m not bothered about pushing them or myself to go faster, turn quicker, jump higher. Actually, I don’t give a flying fuck, I pompously contend. — In future I’m only doing shit that I want to do.

She looks at me in open-mouthed incredulity for a few seconds. I’ve never seen her look so dumb. When she finds her voice, she moans, — But everybody wants you to do well!