Luke Kennard

 17

We’re mixing gin with lemon Fanta and talking about the problem with posterity, about which we all have our own ideas whilst harbouring secret desires for a Collected in ten, twenty, thirty years’ time. Nobody wants to admit to being part of the problem because believing that you are part of the problem is profoundly uncomfortable. Also some things are just embarrassing; some things are just between you and yourself, but to write is to tell someone to go long and hurl that part of yourself towards them. Frequently I’d curse God and die but then privately I’d say, ‘I am so, so sorry, God, I’m so sorry.’ Nobody ever puts away childish things because 1. There are so many of them, and 2. There isn’t adequate storage space. The way, in front of friends, I might have said, ‘Yeah, that toy cat is so stupid!’ and tossed it down the stairs. Then later, alone, I’d cradle the toy cat in my arms and whisper, ‘Please forgive me. Please. I’m so sorry.’