De Engelse schrijver David Nicholls werd geboren op 30 november 1966 in Eastleigh, Hampshire. Zie ook mijn blog van 30 november 2008 en ook mijn blog van 30 november 2009.
Uit: One Day
„Friday 15TH July 1988
Rankeillor Street, Edinburgh
‘I suppose the important thing is to make some sort of difference,’ she said. ‘You know, actually change something.’
‘What, like “change the world”, you mean?’
‘Not the whole entire world. Just the little bit around you.’
They lay in silence for a moment, bodies curled around each other in the single bed, then both began to laugh in low, pre-dawn voices. ‘Can’t believe I just said that,’ she groaned. ‘Sounds a bit corny, doesn’t it?’
A bit corny.’
‘I’m trying to be inspiring! I’m trying to lift your grubby soul for the great adventure that lies ahead of you.’ She turned to face him. ‘Not that you need it. I expect you’ve got your future nicely mapped out, ta very much. Probably got a little flow-chart somewhere or something.’
‘Hardly.’
‘So what’re you going to do then? What’s the great plan?’
‘Well, my parents are going to pick up my stuff, dump it at theirs, then I’ll spend a couple of days in their flat in London, see some friends. Then France-‘
Very nice-‘
‘Then China maybe, see what that’s all about, then maybe onto India, travel around there for a bit-‘
‘Traveling,’ she sighed. ‘So predictable.’
‘What’s wrong with travelling?’
‘Avoiding reality more like.’
‘I think reality is over-rated,’ he said in the hope that this might come across as dark and charismatic.
She sniffed. ‘S’alright, I suppose, for those who can afford it. Why not just say “I’m going on holiday for two years”? It’s the same thing.’
‘Because travel broadens the mind,’ he said, rising onto one elbow and kissing her.
‘Oh I think you’re probably a bit too broad-minded as it is,’ she said, turning her face away, for the moment at least. They settled again on the pillow. ‘Anyway, I didn’t mean what are you doing next month, I meant the future-future, when you’re, I don’t know…’ She paused, as if conjuring up some fantastical idea, like a fifth dimension. ‘…Forty or something. What do you want to be when you’re forty?’
‘Forty?’ He too seemed to be struggling with the concept. ‘Don’t know. Am I allowed to say “rich”?’
‘Just so, so shallow.’
‘Alright then, “famous”.’ He began to nuzzle at her neck. ‘Bit morbid, this, isn’t it?’
‘It’s not morbid, it’s…exciting.’
David Nicholls (Hampshire, 30 november 1966)
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