On March 22nd, 1972, it rained all day and I collected myself in a very pleasant place. I might as well give the exact location: in front of No. 7 Dráva utca, Budapest, 13th district, where there is a pothole in the pavement.
It was my home. Many a man stepped into me, then looking back they cursed me, swore at me, and used harsh words which I am loath to repeat. I was a puddle for two days, taking the insults lying down. It is common knowledge that the sun shone again on the 24th. Oh, the paradoxes of life! I dried up just when the weather turned fine!
What else shall I say! Did I do all right? Did I make a fool of myself? Did I perhaps fall short of the expectations of the people at 7 Dráva utca? Not that it makes any difference, really, but all the same it would be nice to know, if only because after me new puddles will go on collecting there. We live fast, our days are numbered, and while I was spending my days down there, a new generation sprang up, vigorous and ready for action, all of them ambitious potential puddles and they bombarded me with importunate questions as to what they might expect in that promising pothole.
But all in all I "puddled" for a bare two days and all that this allows me to say is that the tone of life is abusive; that Dráva utca is damned windy; and that the sun is forever shining when it has no business to, but at least you don't have to trickle down the drain pipe. Oh boys, what holes, what depressions! Bursting pipes! Sagging roads! These are great things nowadays! All you young people, listen to me, forward to Dráva utca!