Livia

Livia, the last scion of old Europe. The last in the line of Mitteleuropa.


We drank too quickly, like all the British, Livia said. We drank too quickly, and then passed out. Whereas she – she drank slowly. She paced herself. Savoured her drinking. Savoured the night.

She was ready to drink the whole night through. To drink all the way until daytime.

And we were already asleep – comatose – wrecked. We were already snoring where we sat.


Binge life. Her manic energy. Her glee. Only too much was enough.


She didn’t want to hold forth – she wanted us to hold forth. She didn’t want to be centre of the conversation – she wanted us to speak.

Livia wanted our conversation around her, very lively. She wanted to bathe in our banter, she said. She wanted irreverence. Taking the piss – above all taking the piss.


Did she ever write down her thoughts, Livia? Was she at work on a memoir of a communist youth? Of escaping to England in a haycart?