Suddenly he’s a bloody “generation.” Because nowadays people are all thirty-one and wear too-tight trousers and no longer drink normal coffee.
And don’t want to take responsibility. A shed-load of men with elaborate beards, changing jobs and changing wives and changing their car makes.
Just like that. Whenever they feel like it. Ove glares out of the window. The poser is jogging.
Not that Ove is provoked by jogging. Not at all. Ove couldn’t give a damn about people jogging.
What he can’t understand is why they have to make such a big thing of it.
With those smug smiles on their faces, as if they were out there curing pulmonary emphysema.
Either they walk fast or they run slowly, that’s what joggers do.
It’s a forty-year-old man’s way of telling the world that he can’t do anything right.
Is it really necessary to dress up as a fourteen-year-old Romanian gymnast in order to be able to do it?
Or the Olympic tobogganing team? Just because one shuffles aimlessly around the block for three quarters of an hour?
And the poser has a girlfriend. Ten years younger. The Blond Weed, Ove calls her.
Tottering around the streets like an inebriated panda on heels as long as box wrenches,
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