Welcome to my blog which, for the
first time, is a little late this week partly because I had an unusually busy
weekend and partly because I’ve run out of things to say. Quite how I’m going
to capture your interest, or even my own, I’m not sure.
This last week has been summer.
It may be the only summer we have or it may herald the stonking best summer
since 1976. Yesterday I woke up in Manchester. This wasn’t a surprise to me
because I had driven up the day before; two hundred motorway miles at a steady
80mph, restraining myself as much as possible because I was caught speeding a
few months ago and already have to do a speed awareness course. (In fact I’m
always aware of my speed; my problem is in knowing what speed the speed camera
wants me to be going at.) My three speed convictions in fifteen years have all
come at the same place, a camera by a set of traffic lights in Bristol. I
looked again yesterday and I’m sure there’s no sign on that stretch of road to
say what the limit is. (Presumably it is there but deliberately hidden.) I
don’t quibble too much with the overall justice of my being caught because I
always speed.
I was in Manchester to celebrate
the 60th birthday of the mother of my eldest child. She was at
Teacher’s Training College when we met and I was waiting to go to university in
Birmingham. Before long we had in the fashion of the times ‘dropped-out’ of our
respective fully-funded and granted courses. I suppose we may both have reason
to regret that choice, because neither of us subsequently settled in
professions or careers. Yes, she now has a doctorate and I have two Masters Degrees
but that initial sundering from the system was never really rectified. What
would have happened if she had secured her teaching certificate and me my silly
degree in ‘Behavioural Sciences’ is of course, an unknown. Maybe she would be a
retiring headmistress or me a Professor. I don’t regret the decision I made
then but I do think it had consequences to our lives that we couldn’t have
foreseen.
As it was, we moved to Bristol.
How that came about, I don’t know as neither of us knew the place. There I
became a roadsweeper and she worked in a bookshop. Being a roadsweeper wasn’t
great but it was mostly easy because once the traffic woke-up the busy roads
were too busy to clean and I spent most of my days loitering around Clifton zoo
listening to the animals and resweeping the same leaves.
The best thing about the job was
that we were allowed to take our overtime when we wanted. I remember two or
three of us would take our carts out in the middle of the night, drop acid on
the Downs at Clifton, wonder around for a few hours and then return back to
base to claim our doubletime. Even in those days I was nervous taking acid but
I recall that she (my ex) was always fun to trip with because she was funny and
insouciant.
Her sixtieth birthday was hard
for her, because she was sixty but more because her lifelong partner (after me)
died a few months ago, having fallen ill about this time last year. Of course
people told her she doesn’t look sixty but she does. A year of misery shows on
her face. We were young and beautiful, now look at us.
No don’t.
***
From Manchester I went to Derby.
Actually, I went from South Manchester to North Manchester and then back again,
(hard to map read and drive at the same time) and then I headed for Derby to
meet my friends. It was as perfect a day as one would wish for when crossing
the Pennines. I hadn’t driven that road before and it was a shame that despite
having set off 90 minutes early I was soon pressed for time and that I had to
concentrate on the driving because the views were stunning with rivers and
hills and wild moors.
Having set off after just one
piece of bread and one cup of tea, my intention was to breakfast on the way but
as time passed I thought it best to make the appointment and nourish myself
when I got to the marina café where I was to meet my friend. As I got out of the car, however, my friend,
Steve, was ready for action. “We’ve started the boats,” he said excitedly. “If
you’re up for it we could jump right on and then take a break in half an hour
when we get to the first lock.”
I needed a pee, needed a coffee
(or at least a tea) and I needed to eat. Surely I could wait just half an hour
more?
Five hours later, I still needed
a pee, a coffee and something to eat.
Steve has had his boat for four
years. Essentially our meetings are for business but we’ve become friends and
have some interests, for example football, that we share. I usually spend a
couple of hours with him in his house and increasingly he has enthused about
the idea of my going on a little trip on his boat. For politeness sake, in the
hope that we’d be done with it and because the weather was gorgeous, I agreed
that this time we’d chug for a couple of hours. I imagined lying on a deck,
listening to the birds, smoking a pipe and drinking cups of tea.
Canal boats are noisy. The river
is busy on a summer Sunday. There was nowhere to sit and Steve had no teabags.
I had no suncream. Steve’s girlfriend at one point said, “I’ll get us a drink.”
My hopes soared but she returned with beer – which I don’t drink. Because the
river was so busy they couldn’t find a place to moor so we went on. And on. The
sun beat down. We’d come to a lock and everything would get even slower. Off
the boat, on the boat. Pull a rope, hold a rope, feel the rope burning your
hands. Push this lock gate shut. Hold this rope again. Pull the boat back. What
fun this is. And everyone is so friendly and while I’m standing there falsely
smiling, they ask about the boat and tell me all about theirs. ‘Carried coal,
it did. Last worked in 1985.’
Steve and girlfriend so delighted
to be showing me their pride and joy. ‘Wonderful,’ I say.
When I finally get back to my
car, I’m four hours late for my next appointment which is 200 miles away. My
phone is full of messages asking where I am and if I’m alright. Which, once
I’ve had a cup of tea and accelerated to a calming 80mph, I am.
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