As a child Cameron Lunt was conspicuously proud of the fact that he could walk quickly; a point which, had it been remembered would have seemed ironic, when aged twenty-two he was knocked to his death by a reversing ice cream van. Nonetheless, the Boy Lunt could walk quickly. Walking quickly was his thing. He would practice at home; an uncompetitive child, he would practice in the sitting room with the curtains drawn. I can walk quickly, thought Lunt, this what I excel at: the pace of my gait. Circuit training around the three-piece, pacesetting by the pirouetting mechanism of the Windsor mantle clock. It became an obsession. This is my greatest endeavour, thought Lunt, this is the thing I can do.
Though it was, of course, not his thing; it was not a thing at all. Nobody in real life actually values that, there’s no need or reason to be able to tread a course around a suburban sitting room at high speeds. Many people would actually consider it a disadvantage in life; a risk; a danger to the Waterford Crystal and Doulton ladies in their perpetual curtseys. “Cameron,” they would have said in later years, “Cameron, what are you doing? Cameron, stop doing that. Just sit down, Cameron. Just sit down.” Cameron Lunt did not have a thing, that was his thing. Walking quickly is not a thing.
Though it was, of course, not his thing; it was not a thing at all. Nobody in real life actually values that, there’s no need or reason to be able to tread a course around a suburban sitting room at high speeds. Many people would actually consider it a disadvantage in life; a risk; a danger to the Waterford Crystal and Doulton ladies in their perpetual curtseys. “Cameron,” they would have said in later years, “Cameron, what are you doing? Cameron, stop doing that. Just sit down, Cameron. Just sit down.” Cameron Lunt did not have a thing, that was his thing. Walking quickly is not a thing.
