where art collides

Heading south to see the stones that roll feeling as if some creativity would be appropriate. I suspect that the honest occupants of coach M are unlikely to appreciate my singing out loud so the quiet tap tap of the acquiescent keyboard is the right thing to do.

Tap tap, southerly speeding train, glides across cold-flooded arable countryside, the deceiving sunshine smiles the sinister smile of the gangster that has just put a bullet in your leg and bids you good day before departing.

The red bricks of Grantham and grey industrial streets back on to the railway line, straight as far as the eye can see. The sparse platform empties into the carriage whose doors open and suck in new passengers.

In Cornwall severe flooding hits Newlyn and ducks are rescued. The usual incapacity to cope with weather that has existed since the dawn of wattle and daub and town planners that fall to the hypnotic trance of the brown envelope.

On we fly, on and on and quickly my mind races across a continental plain of endless field after endless field, an occasional homestead remote and isolated, scrubbed clean by a relentless, it seems, wind.

Two men conduct an almost whispered conversation that I can still hear but care not to listen to. The car park at Peterborough has plenty of spaces on a Sunday afternoon and my sparkling water fizzles.

On another sub-continent the England and Wales cricket team take to their satisfied beds after a day’s demolition work on the opposition. Life continues and as we continue our journey the bricks grow less distinctive – plastic fronted seventies slingbacks, bland boxes.

In the distance windmills generate, their slim contemporary design a catalyst for emotion.

Factory units. Giant haystacks. Solar cells.  Onboard staff are working overtime and I wonder whatever became of Enoch Runsewe whom I only ever saw once. The sky clouds over as we approach the great metropolis.

I ensure that I have my personal belongings with me as I leave the train and head for the taxi rank.

Muttering under his breath, Jack shoved away his plate, the food untouched, “For Christ’’s sake, Charlie, not again, didn’t you learn the last time?” His chair scraping the tiled floor of the dining hall, he scrambled to his feet. He’d catch his eye, he might stop him making a fool of himself even now.

“MARSHALL!” A parade-ground voice bellowed at him from somewhere to his left, its echo reverberating around the hall. “Sit down when the governor’s speaking, you ignorant shit.”

Looking even more harassed than usual, the governor glanced at Jack over the top of his half-moon glasses and, recognising his orderly, gave him a quick smile. “Yes, Mr Marshall, let’s do as the Chief says, shall we, there’s a good chap.” Then, returning to his prepared speech, he tried to look stern. “Now, men,” he said, “I’m taking this spate of (more…)

Well it was calm. John was quietly getting on with some baking – mud pie I believe. I had sat down to reflect in his company. Something was quietly simmering on the stove top. Outside the warm autumn day was also comfortable, a gentle breeze drying the grass in preparation for another mow. The shaking of bowls, humming to himself and occasional bang with wooden spoon was very relaxing.

Then the tornado breezed in. It began with the sound of a key trying to fit into the front door lock. It couldn’t. My key was already in there. I didn’t have time to react before the inevitable ring on the doorbell. I opened the front door to a cuddle and was greeted with requests for lunch at McDonalds. Ok Waitrose then. Huh! One packet of Cheezy Wotsits later and the individual tornado concerned breezed back out and left us to recover serenity.

Regaining focus, John continued with his preparations and all was well.

I am mentally exhausted. We took Tom to Warwick University today. It was high octane stuff. Everyone was on edge. It’s a big thing for all of us. Anne and I were thrilled that he was going. We know it is the right thing and that he will have a fantastic time. We are proud of him but you could feel the tension, the electricity in the house. Even Tom, though he probably wouldn’t admit, it was hyper.

It was all about the need to get there for 11am. That’s when everyone was going to arrive. None of this “look around the University”. “Just drop me off and let me get on with it”. I am pleased to say that the nearer we got to our destination the more our son became our son.

When we got there we were a team. Tom and Anne got out of the car when we were in the traffic queue and went to suss out the scene. Two major trips from car to room had him installed. The Tesco shopping trolley was invaluable.

An hour walking round the campus with other parents and offspring was rewarding. He was one of us. Tref and Anne’s son. He put up with Tref the Paparazzo and paid attention to his younger brother John.

We picked up his Students Union card, listened to the Endsleigh insurance sales pitch, waited whilst he spoke with various official and unofficial organisations and marvelled at the Warwick University campus.

Back at his room we said goodbye. Hugs and handshakes. Everyone was happy. The future is his.

The birds were in full voice that night, as if it was the first spring.

I drove back through the greenery of the Lincolnshire countryside with the windows of the Jeep wide open.

Coming up to 9pm it was still daylight and the hedgerows were alive with noise.

Breathing in deeply I could smell new growth and it made me glad to be alive.

The reddening sky to the West bode well for the next day and there was hardly any traffic on the road which made for comfortable driving.

As I approached the outskirts of Lincoln a gentle dusk fell over the city and the lights added a pleasant warmth to the scene.

I turned in to the drive and went in to a bottle of Pauillac that I had opened to breathe before setting off on my journey.