the drop-off
car slows down
passenger door opens
stick of kids jump out
in full uniform and ready for action
door shuts behind them
car drives off
leaving scene of incident
kids run straight inside
looking neither to the left nor the right
street returns to normal
life resumed
as if nothing had ever happened
The man said swing
When you’re too tired to write can you slow down? What happens to the words? Do they start to slur? Does what you are saying still make sense? Should that really have been a question mark?
Keyboards don’t drag in the same way that an inkpen does. The smear on the page is missing. The clinical delete button kills off the character. The early draft of a Philosopher On Tap classic will never appear for sale at Christies, found at the bottom of a long forgotten drawer or discovered in the library of a minor country house.
Eb ain’t a great key for a guitarist
Something feels missing. The half consumed bottle of bourbon or the empty jug of black coffee with a pile of cigarette stubs in the ashtray. The pile of paper on the floor, screwed up remnants of screwed up attempts at pen on paper.
Staring at the screen just doesn’t seem to cut it, at least not from the romantic vision of the writer stuck in the attic room looking out over the red brick back streets, or was it a concrete jungle seen from a run down apartment block.
Where’s the story?
The saxophone music came through the wall from next door. At first I thought it came from a CD but then I soon realised this couldn’t be the case. Suddenly it seemed to match my mood. Tiredness. I couldn’t make out the name of the tune. Can’t say my musical knowledge stretches far anyway.
The music stopped and after a minute or so I heard a door slam. Must have been an accident. The slam didn’t match the music. I shut the lid on my laptop and called it a night.
09, 12, 15, 24, 38, 48
Not a single one of them came up. Life’s a bitch.
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.
Friday night isn’t normally music night in our house. Tonight the younger lads are X-Boxing, Anne is out school PTA quizzing, Hannah is dancing and Tom is radioing. So tonight I have a bottle or two of beer, twitter and Windows Media Player.
The rain is doing its best to drown out the music but I have it on as loud as the little USB speakers will allow.
Everyone’s a Winner, Hot Chocolate
Moondance, Van Morrison
Mustang Sally, The Commitments
Riders on the Storm, The Doors
Sweet Dreams (Are made of this), Eurythmics
Hotel California, The Eagles
I remember during my first year at Bangor University I left my Frank Sinatra’s Greatest Hits LP on the deck on the windowsill. The next day was a hot one and I came back to find the record completely warped. I think I must have gone out and bought another one. Frank was pretty indispensable.
The first two LPs I bought were the Soundtrack of the Stud Movie and Sgt Pepper. Sgt Pepper is still one of the greatest records ever made. The Stud will be long forgotten.
Ne Me Quitte Pas, Jacques Brell
Is She Really Going Out with Him, Joe Jackson
My Baby Just Cares for Me, Nina Simone
Girl From Ipanema, Toquinho E Vinicius
Child in Time, Deep Purple
All classics. Now listening to some modern dance music – no idea what you call it. It’s Tom’s last Friday Night show on SirenFM. Not my kind of thing, the music, but he is my son, and he is leaving home to go to Warwick University tomorrow.
The hard drive whirrs. I could hear humming in another room. Tuneful contentment. The kitchen emanating warmth. Now the humming has stopped. They are all in bed. The brain is clear and the hard drive whirrs, keeping me connected. My lifeline to everywhere.
A few essentials hang from the airer and around the room there are signs of preparation. Supplies for a prolonged trip. The build up to departure. Tom is leaving us. I can hear the clock. For the first time ever as far as I can recall. It isn’t much of a competition, hard drive and clock.
The wooden block calendar on the windowsill still says 16th August. Time drags. The pile of papers in my “In Tray” on the worktop has reached unmanageable proportions. There will have to be a sort out. Manyana.
Some bowls have been left out ready for breakfast, and a few plastic beakers. This is a great, lived in, working kitchen. A jumble of utility and ornament, tidiness and random scatter. The jug of water is empty. Time for bed.
It’s raining outside. I can tell without looking because of the noise on the conservatory roof. The fire crackles in the grate and inside I feel a comfortable glow.
It is not long now until the clocks go back. It almost feels as if we might just as well get on and do it now. Summer’s tans have long since faded and with the new school year in full swing the holidays are already a distant memory.
Today I harvested what was left of the chilli crop and put them in the oven on a slow heat to dry out. An unusually modern day version of preserving foods for the winter ahead. I doubt that drying chillies was in Mrs Beeton’s repertoire.
Anne has discovered the art of bread making and has become quite adept at it. We are now frequently treated to fresh bread for our sandwiches. It makes especially good toast with crunchy crusts. Throw my home made spicy plum chutney and a good strong cheddar into the mix and you have the elements of a perfect cheese and pickle sandwich.
All is well.
sign in shop window - home made cake
Coleman Fuel for camping stoves
fruits of labour - the chilli harvest
vine withered tomatoes bring autumnal melancholy to the back garden
Dusk at Lincoln Cathedral looking at the Wren Library in September 2010
Flying Buttress at Lincoln Cathedral Chapter House
Lincoln Steep Hill in September
good apple
bad apple