Heimurin hjá Andy (paperbook)
I was given the whole week-end off. Fantastic! I’d told her, that if I didn’t get a lads’ week-end with my mates Olli and Heri, I would end up as an article in the next volume of the local women’s magazine under the headline: Andy, the New-Age Man with Tender Values, Takes Care of the Kids, Folds the Clothes and Makes the Dishes. And that would be an irreversible shame. Men must get clean air, shoot hares, go hiking and have a night out in the town.
Barely out of the doors, we bellowed “The Boys are Back in Town” and tumbled into a night club. The first lady I met I had not seen since I lay on my bed in my boyhood room and played “Her Love” by Hjarnar over and over again on my cassette player as I dreamed of her. She played the flute at the time. Perhaps that’s why I fell for her, even though she was no great flutist, no Ian Anderson. She only played “Itty Bitty Spider” and such. But that had been plenty to impress me.
I asked her for a dance. She said yes. The band started with a guitar intro, and I went straight into my own Fender Stratocaster air solo. She fled immediately, mumbled something about me being as immature and childish as I had always been …
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