Less Than Perfect Read Online Free Page B

much as it fascinated him, teasing him with dialoguehe couldn’t properly follow and lifestyles he could never hope to emulate. He would flick through the channels, leaning towards the telly with the remote control in his hand – the signal didn’t work unless you held it close and pressed hard on the buttons. He liked to watch anything to do with cars: design, road testing, racing, anything that involved a motor and four wheels. He would have loved a car of his own, to feel the curve of the steering wheel under his hands, to command the vehicle with the gearstick and clutch, accelerator and brake. He knew how to drive – his father had taught him – but he wasn’t deemed fit for a licence because he couldn’t hear sirens or car horns in the event of an emergency.
    â€˜It’s not fair,’ he’d protest, anguished by his exclusion from this aspect of everyday life more than anything else. ‘All those lazy, incompetent drivers on the road, and yet they’re allowed to sit behind the wheel and I’m not.’
    I tried to console him. ‘Maybe they’ll change the rules when hearing-aid technology improves.’
    â€˜Yeah, maybe, but I could be an old man by then!’
    When Josh had finished surfing the channels on the telly, we’d snuggle together under the covers and watch a film, usually a foreign one with subtitles, a quirky storyline and more nudity than the plot required. Those were happy times – the warmth of the duvet and his body next to mine, the small portable telly with its wonky aerial, its blurry screen a window to an exotic other world.
    Initially I didn’t take much notice of the peace talks that were reported on the telly.
    â€˜Talks between the political parties and the Irish and British governments have been going on for more than thirty hoursnow, through the day and night, and now into another day, in a monumental effort to reach agreement …’
    It took a while for the television coverage to penetrate my cynicism. As far as I was concerned, there was always some politician talking to another, shaking hands and flashing phoney smiles at the cameras, but nothing ever came of those talks. Nothing happened other than the handshake, so firm and resolute, promising so much and delivering nothing at all. I imagined that both parties left with the best of intentions, and then at some stage reality intruded: thirty years of conflict; arms, hatred and history more powerful and dividing than any image of the future.
    â€˜Tony Blair and Bertie Ahern have not slept, leading to reports that it’s not a matter of
if
agreement will be reached, but
when
…’
    The chairman of the talks, a US senator, had been up all night too. Though the deadline for an agreement had passed, the news commentator sounded excited and hopeful. Maybe it was a similar sense of hope that made me break one of my rules and leave the telly on past the allotted time. I muted the sound and resumed my work on the sociology essay I needed to submit before the end of the week. A few laborious pages later, I glanced up to see that Tony Blair was speaking at a news conference; the talks had apparently ended. I turned the sound back on.
    â€˜Today I hope that the burden of history can at long last start to be lifted from our shoulders.’
    The agreement had been signed by the British and Irish governments and by most of the political parties. It was called the Good Friday Peace Agreement.
    When Josh came over later that night, we watched morecoverage on the agreement. Great Britain and the Republic of Ireland were to amend their laws and constitutions regarding Northern Ireland, which would now have its own assembly with devolved legislative powers. From this point, any change to the constitutional status of Northern Ireland could only follow a majority vote of its citizens. All paramilitary weapons were to be decommissioned and prisoners released within two