Just come back from a walk in the allotments at the back of our house.
It was a privilege to have been the first human there after the snow. Not quite the same as a being the first to lay eyes on Shangrila but these days we have to be grateful for any small discoveries allowed to us.
Having recently watched the BBC series frozen planet our bit of snow does seem a little pathetic but hey, I’ll take it.
Greying sky and temperature drop. Shop girl moves pavement display inside. Few pedestrians circulate though two cyclists skid to halt by bookies. Man carries three bags for life. I feel draught and adjust shirt under coat. Baby cries outside post office. Hands in pocket dirty road home city needs a clean. Garage sells all coal. Soups stock’s out in supermarket. A nation anticipates snow.
five boys, two phones
three watch, two play
three gifts, for birthdays
six parents, no choice
crowded café, quiet murmur
newspapers, smartphones, bacon sandwiches
outside, bright Saturday morning
sun competes with sharp frost,
most customers sit alone
TV switches on, intrudes
nobody watches, except I watch people
and pictures on wall
murmur volume grows
competing with ignorant TV
noisy advertisments
music switches on kitchen
in preference
I notice lights, wonder if dark without
11 am in February
I am laid back on the sofa near the fire listening to Pink Floyd. In my own little world. This music is so near to perfection that I want to write the equivalent of it in prose, or poetry. Words should be able to take me away in the same way that the music does. There is no reason why words alone can’t anaesthetise. Carry.
Our family tonight has become the ultimate technology victim. Anne is sat on the floor inserting leaflets into “Target” newspapers whilst watching some TV programme on the iPad and listening through earphones. We are in our own zones. There is no need to talk to each other. Each other’s presence is enough. The kids are elsewhere.
No great words from me though. Just meanderings. As the log fire dances slowly its warmth gently permeates.
Nothing that is on the TV attracts me. It strikes me that talented as some of these programme makers must be we can surely have nothing in common.
I saw a man in an orange high viz top
He looked as if he was picking up rubbish
He picked up a cigarette stub, studied it and slipped it in his pocket
I gagged
Jaunty jazz-filled airwaves at Café Guzel. Not many customers but it is after 9am and they should all be at work. I can see them striding purposefully by outside, well wrapped up against the zero degrees first day in February. The café is comfortable and its walls are covered in fifties and sixties movie memorabilia together with souvenir number plates from the far side of the Atlantic.
I am facing the big front windows but behind me I can hear café-like activity. Frying, clanking dishes and the banter in another language between the chef and waitress.
The music has stopped and I can now hear the traffic and what sounds like the moan of the wind outside though it may be the beginning of the next track! I have a few more minutes before I need to head off for my meeting.
Occasionally the door opens and someone else enters. Good morning…
There was a dead fox in the road. It was perfectly formed, although obviously being dead was a slight imperfection. I only saw it for a moment as I drove past. I looked at it. The fox did not look back. I was quickly by and the dead fox disappeared into memory.
There is something quite reassuring about those words. “…there is no run…”
Normally associated with lazy summer days, the French windows open into the garden, Test Match Special on the wireless and me, sprawled on the sofa half dozing, half listening. Cricket can rank as one of the most frustrating games going. Teams swing from stellar performances to disastrous collapses. One moment you are glued to the set and the other you have to switch off to avoid the unbearable tension.
However cricket is at its reassuring best when nothing is happening. Hot, slow scoring afternoons with ball after ball left outside the off stump, the occasional safe prod back to the bowler, drinks breaks, chocolate cake, seagulls and double decker busses trundling down the Old Kent Road.
When there is no run all is well.
Doesn’t happen very often!
you can go straight in
no waiting, no time to think
perfunctory chat, the chair back sinks
hand over control
smells, glare, open mouth, noises
occasional aah – not much of a conversation
plastic sucks metal prods
several injections stab pain
numbing silence
whirring drill might be pneumatic
gag
hold on tight
large spectacles see spit fountain
filling, squeak and scrape
clamp those teeth, up and down, a few times
looks good
rinse and spit out the bits
quick clean and quick payment
departure.
the trip to the dentist,
never a great experience.
endless hypnotic wait for the passing
in cold trance of a train
of infinite length, flatbed truck follows
flatbed truck after flatbed truck
lengthening a crossing queue
of, eventually, growing irritation as
the train never seems to end.
It’s January and everywhere is dark and wet and miserable.
The Lincoln slate sky covers a time of drabness day,
Flat blue-red-brick- beige-grey-dark in the paint-damp-run drizzle,
Orange branding tries vainly to B&Q brighten the desperate place,
Over the neon road, lights just make it though the gloom:
SCS, Pets at Home, Starbucks, Staples, Comet, PC World, Currys
Countrywide conformity reflected in dark and miserable grey.
A walk in the woods
Lit by winters candle
Subtle colours
Show the frozen way
A breath of purpose
Clouds the trail before us
Hasten home
As night descends on day
The half frosted field
And bright twilight
Of the cold winter afternoon
Shadows lengthen
Invisibility cloaks
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!
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