Jennifer and I sat out on the lawn, reading through our dog-eared copies of The Wasteland. Whilst she chose always to absorb the text with an impressionist piano accompaniment playing off her walkman, I found the colours of Debussy and Ravel too vibrant for the subtle dulness of Eliot's world. What does she know about tonal colour anyway?
Later that evening we opened a Pinot on the river-bank, to cool off after our heated debate. It seemed Jennifer's interpretation of Mein Kampf disagreed somewhat with my own. I guess she's entitled to an opinion?
Shortly after perusing the National Portrait Gallery for creative inspiration, Jennifer rolled her eyes as I used the term 'real art' to describe a Freud oil work. She expounded upon this over our continental breakfast, by informing me that Emin's ironic depiction of British society is far more complex and multi-faceted than any two dimensional Renoir or Monet canvas. But she'd had jam on her upper lip for twenty minutes, since she tried to squeeze too much croissant into her face, so I let it slide.
Later, in an attempt to clear the air after the day's disagreements, I suggested we take a pedalo out on the lake. Enjoying the silence, I had a moment of self-reflection, considering how the pleasantness of our intellectual hiatus was mirrored, as if by divine perpetuation of the moment, by the stillness of the evening. As we drifted further out into the reservoir, Jennifer broke this silence, asking if I too felt that Western society's over-zealous media had portrayed a misrepresentative interpretation of Gaddafi's 'modern' government.
So I pushed the ignorant, fascist bitch over the side, and pedalled the fuck off.
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