where art collides

One wore a short green topcoat with large green buttons, a pair of blue jeans and sensible shoes. The other was similarly attired with a black and white hounds tooth top and a black beret. Not “with it” but not “without it”.

They were slim. Greying hair.

Their faces betrayed them, more appropriate to the old east end, a talk with a fag over the back fence whilst they hung out the washing. There was nothing out of place about them. They were of this time. It’s just that their craggy faces were not.

“It’s a good job I’m skinny” said one to the other as she sat down next to someone else sat opposite me. He didn’t look that big. It’s all about attitude.

Neither wore a wedding ring. I wondered if they were partners. Certainly friends. Get on!

JazzFM is on in the background. I’m on my third glass of wine. Quite a nice 2007 Rioja. I am relaxed.

A boy strides up and down discussing attitudes to disease in the 19th century.

I recognise some of the tunes. It adds to the warm and comfortable feeling.

Looking around I notice the colours in the kitchen. Black contrasts with oak. Green tablecloths with the rich red of the wine. The lights are reflected in the deep black windows.

A double base plucks its resonance and the hi hat intermingles with strokes on the piano.

Household noises don’t interrupt. A football match is about to begin in another room. A debate on medical discoveries continues; single sided.

A Spanish guitar has replaced the piano. I picture myself playing it. Removing my spectacles, eyes closed, my mind wanders off to a cellar bar in Andalucia. Communication is unnecessary.

An evening meal enters the room, shakes a saucepan and greets us. The trance is broken.

nothing to hear

A small boy taps his feet. No words are said, the only sound the quiet pad of foot on floor. He is engrossed, mind focussed on the ethereal conversation on the screen in front of him.

The tapping stops, feet now up on the settee. A silent keyboard makes no noise though it must be kept busy.

The peace is short lived. His mother comes in and chases him upstairs to bed.

This winter I will trim the hedge. I will prune the fruit trees. I might work on the lawn, left over the years to the childhood ravages of wrestling, football, cricket  and rugby, of golf divots and tunnels to Australia.   I will chop the wood, lain drying by the back fence for longer than a season. I will fix the gutter by the door to the garden.

This winter I will go for walks that make my cheeks glow, returning to steamed up spectacles, defrosting in front of the fire. I will consume vast amounts of crumpets dripping with butter and polish off bottles of wine in the kitchen whilst preparing the Sunday roast.