Fragments From My Sketchbook


I know, I know. The 16-year-old me would probably be amazed that the ten years older herself is not only allowed to go to concerts, but even earns money only by participating such events and writing about them. (This would probably compensate her for the fact that – much to her disappointment – I am still alive at such an old age.)

But you know it's much less fun when you're there because you are obligated, surrounded by complete strangers and people that either irritate you or are irritated by you. And you know... eventually you hit the age when at 10 p.m. you don't wish to be at a loud and crowded concert but to be at home at your warm and comfy little bed... What you say dear reader, that said age people usually hit in their 70s? Sorry I can't hear you well...

All right, you got me. I'm a helpless antisocial. A real proper spinster. A “musically uncool” person – or something like that I just read that night in that book of Miranda Harts when I got laughed at... In my defence I was reading Salinger just a half hour before.

Hungarian translation
És itt látható kedves gyerekek
az Antiszociális-szobor.

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