Bullet’s doing the Leaving Cert at the moment, and as usual he’s completely laid back.
What am I talking about? He’s horizontal.
His Les Paul Epiphone is plugged into a tiny practice amp and he’s draped across an armchair, idly running off quiet blues licks as he watches the World Cup. He has a bag of nachos beside him on the floor and he reaches down occasionally for a mouthful.
When I was his age, doing the Leaving Cert, I was losing my mind with worry and fear, and a bit of loathing, but this bastard is chilled.
Today he had the second of the hard maths papers but he seems to have handled it fairly well. We had a good look over it and it brought me right back there, but he seems to have knocked a reasonable hole in it.
We have much in common: he loves mathematics, physics and English, as I do myself. He’s a lazy bastard, as I am myself. And he has no respect for authority, much like his father.
I wandered into his room earlier to wish him well in tomorrow’s exam. He was staring at the PC, and a small vodka bottle with half an inch of dark liquid in it rested quietly beside him.
What’s that? I asked.
Not sure, he said. I found it in the wardrobe. Probably Jaegermeister, by the colour of it.
I nodded. Are you drinking it now?
No, he said. It must have been there from when I had to hide these things.
Right, I told him. Well, go easy on the drink while you’re studying.
Right-ee-o, he grinned, and turned back to his computer.
How times change.
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