Memories of an American in England

This is the start of my translated short story about a young man living his teenager years in England

Some days should be completely abolished. Abolished in the literal sense of the word. In the sense that they shouldn't be there at all. You wake up one morning and already you know that day should have been deleted. But this time I was completely wrong. I remember lying on my bed, waking to the sound of the alarm, thinking it was going to be one of those days of nonsense… I was really wrong. Actually, if I can remember correctly, it was my birthday, 20th of February. I had planned to go to London with Harry and Joe, those two guys who pretended to be my best friends. I will never know if they really were, or if they stuck around only because my dad was loaded. I didn't really like them, though. Don't get me wrong, they weren't boring as hell or anything, but they weren't exactly a barrel of laughs either.

Harry could be a total pain. Sure, we had fun, wrecking my dad's fields and letting everything go up in flames. Not that it made much difference to my dad's fortune. But Harry. Once, that joker even stole 27 dollars from my wallet while I was playing football. A total freak, that guy. On the other hand, Joe was a smarty. A smarty of the first order, to be precise. One of those guys that's only too ready to point out your mistakes. The thing is, I make a lot of mistakes.

My name, though, is Christopher. Chris, to my friends. Not that I had a load of them. I am more of a shower guy. Toilette guy, actually. I spend most of my day in the bathroom, to be fair. Unlike my two friends, I am American. From Philadelphia to be precise. I was born into a wealthy family, all thanks to my father's father. My grandad. That poor saint cracked his back in order to transform his family's future. And what a transformation! He raised a legacy for the next three generations. For that, I thank him every day. Although sometimes I kink of hate him, because with that money my dad can afford to send me to this crappy place. In Britain. Every year I have to cross the ocean on a damned ship. And the ocean - what's that all about? I mean, it's just a nuisance. Am I wrong to think like this?