…Meanwhile, the men sit, slightly hunched beneath half-erected umbrellas, navigating the space between next beer and marital disapproval. Some opt for exotic-looking cocktails, prepared to argue that, despite persuading the barman to add half a bottle of vodka to each, they are basically just fancy-looking pop – all lemonade and fruit juice – and that they really just keep going to the bar in order to collect the free peanuts: flimsy in the extreme, given that this is all-inclusive hotel and everything at the point of delivery is free.
10am appears to be the time beyond which no self-respecting male can be seen with a non-alcoholic beverage (except for water – as we all understand the value of water-drinking in preventing the prolonged discussion of ‘what you’re like when you’ve had too much to drink’.) Angry red patches of sunburn are also integral to the male psyche: ‘I am too macho to require the protection of suncream. I am male, I feel no pain.’ With the exception of tonsure, nose and ears, men prefer red to tan.
Parasols are erected for the benefit of ‘the wife and kids’. Men do not need them. Shade is not natural – unless it has a bar in the middle of it. If the umbrella proves intransigent, the man will simply move his family – perhaps to another hotel – rather than ask for help with it. Sun shade-inflicted blood blisters will be bravely sported for the duration of the holiday and may well preclude an immediate return to work when the holiday is over.
None-the-less, the average sub-thirty male is perfectly happy to spend half a day knee-deep in the paddling pool on a ‘work call’ rather than play another bloody game of ‘catch’ with the kids. It is important for the children to learn that it is ‘not all about them’. Everyone has to toe the line – it is a family holiday after all…
With apologies, as ever, for lack of communication over the last few days during my holiday, I give you a week of holiday missives, all jotted on a titchy hotel note pad using the complimentary ballpoint pen – meaning that I feel somehow obliged to report that we had a very good holiday thank you very much indeed. Yes, of course we will come again…
I am certain that many of you will have already worked it out, but as I write today’s little communiqué (although not, as it goes, as you read it – you know how I work) I am taking what I promised myself would be a short break from writing this kind of thing whilst enjoying a week lounging in the Aegean sunshine. Except that I am not. What I am, in fact, doing is writing about my attempts to take a break from writing because I fear that if I ever did manage to take a break from whatever-it-is that I am now doing, my brain might well explode and blow my hat off, up above the canopy of sunshades and into the cloudless blue yonder. The Great Creator of All Things (or Pure Evolutionary Fluke, depending on your point of view) failed to furnish me with an ‘Off’ switch.
It is one of those things that becomes quite suddenly obvious to me when the rest of the outside world seems to stop; when the pool empties, the sunbeds fill with crackling bodies and not even the promised onshore breeze can be arsed, quite frankly. My brain remains semi-occupied by sound (Radiohead as you ask) and story (Starship Titanic as you ditto) but cannot restrain itself from the habit of creating cloudy little biographies for the basting souls that surround me…
…Take the woman directly in front of me. She does not know that I am looking at her, partly due to the effectiveness of mirrored sunglasses and partly because I have yet to see her remove her gaze from the screen of her mobile phone. It is unrelenting. What could possibly demand so much attention? She is in her late twenties (in the way that I am in my late fifties) and she is called Tiffany, or Chardonnay, or Clacton-on-Sea. She has discovered Facebook and realised that it is altogether less messy – both physically and mentally – to follow the amorous activities of others than to pursue her own. She has become a sponge for the overwrought emotions of others and without them, she realises, she has little left: she has no life of her own; no emotion and no inter-personal relationships that do not require the use of both thumbs…
…Or then again, perhaps she’s called Vicky, on holiday with her best friend Ava, who is up in the room quietly regretting an over-zealous evening with Sex-on-the-Beach and Pornstar Martini. She is cyber-stalking her ‘ex’ (Dwane) and his new girlfriend who is twenty years her junior and wears a school uniform, not for titillation but because she has to go to school. Vicky would report him to the police if she didn’t realise that it was actually pure fantasy. Although the thought of doing it anyway – anonymously of course – does hold a certain appeal…
There are men around here too, of course, but from the look of it they live far more mundane lives, centred around tattoos, pubs and pies. Men, unless completely atypical, are far less interesting…
And then it occurs to me that Tiffany herself is wearing mirrored sunglasses. Perhaps she is looking at me. Perhaps she is writing down what she sees on her ever-present Apple. Perhaps she knows exactly why I am jotting notes down in this tatty notebook. I wonder what she thinks my name is…
Having mentioned him at the end of my previous post, I felt it incumbent upon me to set the record straight for the one time ‘King of the North Sea Empire’ (England, Denmark and Norway) – although I feel sure he probably doesn’t need it now. King Canute – actually Cnut, but nobody other than the very bravest of teachers ever puts an anagram of that type in front of a schoolchild – is widely held up as an example of extreme vanity: as a man who believed he was powerful enough to turn back the tide, when in fact he should be held up of an example of what history can do to you if you are not extremely careful.
Unlike many of his courtiers, who really did believe him to be all powerful, the old Dane was wise enough to know that he was not. He was a clever statesman and a fierce soldier, but he knew that he was not omnipotent. In fact, his little beach escapade was actually intended as a means of demonstrating this to his followers: in failing to turn back the waves he succeeded in proving that he was, in fact, a fallible, mortal man – although it might not have been wise to spread the word too widely, reputations to maintain and all that – he was still king of three countries and a ferocious warrior to boot. That most of us, a millennia later, perceive him as trying to prove exactly what he sought to disprove just goes to show how willing history is to give you the shitty end of the stick if it gets half the chance. It’s all very well being remembered for what you did, as long as someone remembers why you did it…
Whilst my grasp of technology is pretty much ok for a man of my age, my willingness to utilise it is very much less so. I have access to millions (probably billions – I can’t be sure and I can find no incentive to check) of songs on the various streaming services, but I still choose to listen, constantly, to CD’s and I continue to add to my collection weekly. We have various TV streaming services, but when I do watch TV, I watch the terrestrial broadcasts based on ‘what’s on’, and when I find a new series that I enjoy, I tune in at the same time each week to watch the next episode. TV is one of the few things I never binge on. I have been playing with computers since the days of MS-DOS, but I feel no compulsion to ‘fiddle’ these days. As long as they continue to do what I need them to do, I leave them to it. I am peculiarly inept at ‘computer games’, constantly going left when I should go right, up when I should go down, forever shooting myself in the foot, so I make no more than an occasional foray into Football Manager, in which I inevitably get sacked half way through my first season having overseen a player revolt and a plummet to a league position from which the only way is up. By and large, I don’t seek solutions until I’ve got problems.
I have mentioned before – far too often for comfort I fear – the march of the new that is taking place just behind our back hedge and today, as the sun was shining, I looked out with more than my usual attention to the comings and goings in the building site which has become the backdrop to every writing session, and I grasped, quite suddenly, the stark contrast between what I would like to hang onto and what I am so patently about to lose. My own world is shrinking and the outside world is encroaching – literally banging on my back gate – and there is nothing to be done. People need homes and here they are.
The photograph at the top of this page is one of a glorious sunset I witnessed over the top of my laptop perhaps two years ago. It does not do the scene justice – I am no photo-journalist – but it does perhaps illustrate the magnitude of what I previously had to look out on. These photographs are of my little garden now when viewed from ground level – e.g. when making coffee or raiding the biscuit barrel…
…whilst these are views from my office window.
To the right you can see some of the 100+ houses that have been built to date. The rest of the 350+ are still to come…
The question is what do I do now? Do I resist? Do I grow my hedge and narrow my horizons down to my own three fences, or do I embrace the change that I can do nothing to halt, enjoy the spectacle and, when the time comes, broaden my outlook and become part of the new before it has the opportunity to consume me? For years we have lived with a picture postcard view of England’s green and pleasant, but also the worry of what they might do with it. We no longer have that worry. We have certainty, and the reality – almost certainly – will be nothing like as dire as the fear of what might have been.
Mortality has pressed a little heavier on me this year – anyone of a similar age will understand this – the world, and more importantly the people within it, are changing. It is an ongoing process that could, and probably should, never be turned back. I am on the beach. I can be Canute or I can don a sunhat and paddle. Here’s to getting my feet wet…
Hare and Hounds was the game of my youthful summers when every kid that could be rounded up from the street convened in the early morning to play the mammoth chase game in which the rules were exceedingly fluid – usually culminating in the ‘hares’ suffering pain, indignity or, more often than not, both – and the game itself extraordinarily wide-ranging. The smallest kids were the hares who, after having been corralled by the bigger kids were told to get going if they didn’t want to find themselves on the receiving end of a bigger kid’s toe-cap there and then. I was a small kid, and the ‘get going’ consisted solely of getting as far away as possible as quickly as possible, whilst the bigger kids gathered up drinks, sandwiches and, if their dads weren’t looking, half a dozen Park Drive Filter-tipped. The ‘game’ itself generally covered almost all the daylight hours, several miles of countryside and more outlying villages than you could shake a stick at.
It was a great ‘Yahoo’ for the ‘hounds’ who shared the ‘pop’*, the ‘picnic’** and the cigarettes whilst charging gleefully around the sward with the wind in their crew-cuts and the scent of young blood in their noses. For the ‘hares’ it was not such a great way of passing the day. You were under strict instructions to stick together, if you left anyone behind you were heading not just for a kicking from the bigger kids, but also a belt around the ear from the parents of the dawdler. So you had to stick together, even if one of your number was complaining of having a stone in his shoe after the first fifty yards, claiming that he had broken his leg before the end of the street and crying before the city limits. What you desperately hoped was that guile and stealth would allow you to sneak back through the lines of the chasing pack, lock the door, plonk yourselves on the settee with crisps and barley water, and watch ‘Mr Ed’ whilst they were still dismembering newts in the local stream, all the time praying that your mum would get home before they realised what you had done and arrived en masse with a key, a grudge and the fervent desire to dish out retribution. In the event, what you actually did was run for your life and hope that they would get bored before your knees buckled.
If you timed it right, you would arrive back on the street as they all disappeared into the houses for their tea; when even the look-out who was left on the bottom corner with a cricket stump and an evil glint, had had enough and succumbed to the lure of the ever-permeating odour of slightly charred Birds Eye rissoles, Surprise Peas and crinkle-cut chips. Only then, tired and starving could you sneak back into the house in the knowledge that older kids could not hand out the traditional beating in front of your parents. Not so easy, though, to escape the wrath of your mother for a) being out all day without telling her where you were (not easy, as most of the time you did not know yourself) b) missing your tea, and c) scuffing the toes of your school shoes and bleeding on your shirt. Dobbing-in the big kids was not an option, you could not stay with your mother forever. Sooner or later she would send you to the shops with a ten-bob note and the warning not to let the butcher give you a joint that was full of fat again, and they would be waiting.
The whole point of the game? Well, as far as I can remember, it was simply to survive long enough to, one day, be one of the bigger kids yourself…
*Any fizzy drink, usually bought from the Corona Van Man, in a glass bottle that you dare not lose or damage as it had a 3d deposit on it. **A slice of three day old Mother’s Pride, a hard-boiled egg (with green rim around yolk), a packet of Nibb-its and a slice of Lyon’s Jam Swiss Roll wrapped up in yesterday’s Daily Mirror.
I don’t often do things this way, but I thought, for a change I might just give it a go. This is a straight to blog effort (in much the same manner, I fear, as a straight to video film, a straight to remainders book or a straight to Chelsea footballer, doomed to failure) typed straight onto the laptop without the safety net of either notes or plan. It feels oddly like I am taking an exam: the sudden cessation of all mental activity, a temporary separation for synapses, neurons taking a well-earned siesta, tongue cleaved to roof of mouth like a politician to doggerel. I came into this, as is completely usual for me, with just a single demi-sentence in my head: ‘…who had no intention of sitting in the cheap seats, thank you very much’ and the vague notion that I had a tale to tell about the Marathon. You see, I ‘remembered’ that the 385 yards added to the twenty six miles of the race were originally tacked on so that the runners could take a final three-quarter lap of the 1908 Olympic stadium before breaking the tape in front of the Royal Box, and I considered the reaction of the Royal entourage had they been asked to move fifty-five yards further round the stadium in order to save the runners this additional effort. The problem is that, unusually, I decided to check my facts…
You see I discovered that prior to 1908 there was no official distance for the Marathon. It was just a very long way. As long as all the runners covered the same distance and nobody caught the bus, it didn’t really matter. In fact, the first Olympic Marathon in 1896 was less than twenty five miles long (closer to the actual distance ran by Pheidippides, who died from the effort some 2,386 years previously having, presumably, failed to fuel up on pasta and Red Bull) and was completed in slightly less than three hours. Even after 1908 it took a fair few years for everyone to agree that 26 miles and 385 yards was, indeed, the proper distance for the race* (royal patronage, presumably, being worth the extra yardage). So, technically, I suppose it would be fair to say that 385 yards was not added to the official Marathon distance to ensure that the British Monarchy did not have to crane their necks, but simply added to that particular race in order to ensure that they were able to continue to gaze regally ahead, whilst the sweaty serfs panted by.) In the event, the race was won by the Italian athlete Dorando Pietri who was subsequently disqualified for receiving assistance inside the stadium as he was too exhausted to finish unaided despite being some minutes ahead of the other athletes. If the race had been over the originally intended distance, he would have finished without help and, presumably, be listed above Johnny Hayes (the de-facto winner, who eventually carried off the ceremonial neckwear and got the obligatory tattoo) in Olympic annals. I can find no record of how long it took the man who was dressed as a Rhino nor, times being as they were, whether anybody managed to goose-step the full distance. (Pietri did, though, finish 76 years ahead of the first woman winner, as the Olympic Women’s Marathon did not take place until 1984, when the rules were finally changed to allow female athletes to run without girdles, disengage suckling infants from the nipple and dismiss their obligation to remain at least one step behind the men at all times. Also, it was decided that they would be allowed to pre-prepare a cold supper for the evening of the race only and that if they were obliged by their husband to take part in sexual activities, they could do so without moving.)
The rest, as they say, is history. (In actual fact, given the speed of light, everything is history isn’t it, as even if you are there for the event, it has happened before you actually see it.) The Marathon distance is now fully established for both men and women (although my own personal view that anybody who attempts to run the distance dressed as a lobster needs their head looking at, remains unchanged) and although it may not be the kind of contribution on which reputations are made (I hope) I did at least complete my ad hoc post, dressed as usual in running shorts and a basque and I think, in the long run, it might well be something I would do again if I can get the right sponsorship…
*Although modern measuring techniques have shown that the first mile of the 1908 race was, in fact, 172 yards short.
Eye test and contact lens aftercare today, always a slightly uncomfortable situation: trapped in a very small booth with a much younger person (Colin’s Rule of all embarrassing situations – the other person is always much younger than yourself) and all I can think about is my breath. Why did I have that curry last night? Breathing as shallowly and slowly as possible just makes my head swim. It is hard to focus on anything when the room is spinning…
A piece of equipment, looking disconcertingly like a Star Wars Imperial Guard is spun towards me. “Rest your chin on here,” says the very nice lady (VNL) who is conducting your tests, “and your forehead on here.” “Well sorry, but it is possible to do only one or the other. I can only assume that the person having the tests done before me was one of Doctor Frankenstein’s creations. Whoever it was had a face that was longer than my arm,” I think, but do not say. I try to smile, but I sense I am grimacing. Levers are pressed and my chin arcs up towards my forehead, lifting my backside clear of the chair. “Is that better?” asks the VNL. “Yes,” I reply, trying very hard not to sound too much like Kermit the Frog with his tiny green balls caught in a mousetrap. “Right then,” she continues, “Look at the hot air balloon. It will come into and out of focus. Don’t worry about it.” I’m not. I’m worrying about why I can’t even see a hot air balloon either fuzzy or otherwise. “That’s good,” she says with the remarkable absence of any sign of a sigh. “Now you will feel a puff of air. Don’t worry if it makes you blink… although it would be better if you could open your eyes for me now…” “I can hear the ‘click’,” I explain “and my eyes just blink automatically.” “Perhaps you could try to distract them… Next we are going to take some photographs of the back of your eyes, so try not to blink at all now.” Have you ever tried not to blink when told not to blink? It is like trying to convince yourself that you don’t need to wee when the toilet is broken. I open my eyes as wide as I can. At least if they fall out of their sockets here, I think, there should at least be somebody capable of putting them back.
“…Now, without your contact lenses or spectacles, can you read me the smallest line you can see on the chart.” “Chart? Without contact lenses or spectacles I can barely see the wall!” “That’s fine, I’ll put some lenses in. Now, what can you read now?” “F-I-R-E-E-X-I-T…” “OK, we’ll come back to that. Look at the figures on the wall. Are they clearer on the red background or the green?” “Er…” “I’ll do it again, just say which is the clearest. Red or green?” “Er… They both look the same.” “Do they?” “Yes, I think so.” “What about now?” “Red.” “Really? Are you sure?” “Er… Not really, no…”
“I think we’d better just take a little look into your eyes. Put your chin on here again and stare straight ahead.” I can’t. Why can’t I just look straight ahead? My eyes are all over the place; I can feel them leaping around the room like they’re on a pogo stick. I can’t stop blinking. Why am I so… blinky? “That’s fine,” says the smiling VNL, pulling the giant equipment, to which my chin appears to have become temporarily welded, away from me. “I’m sorry if I looked the wrong way,” I croak. “I’m not very good with left and right.” “No problem,” she says. “You did really well with the ‘up’ and ‘down’…” Thank goodness for a VNL with a sense of humour. “Well,” she continues, “I can see very slight signs of degeneration and early indications of cataracts forming, but don’t worry, it’s to be expected in somebody of your age…”
Bowing to all manner of familial pressures we bought an Air-Fryer which my wife now worships as a God. It sits (or in my opinion lurks) in the corner of the utility room – because my wife does not like cluttered surfaces in the kitchen – and oozes contempt for the appliances that surround it. Black, sleek and sullen it sneers at the toaster and the coffee-maker. It is forced to share a worktop with the microwave for goodness sake! This is an appliance with attitude.
For the uninitiated, I should explain that the air-fryer does not fry – that would definitely be beneath it – other than the fact that it does chips I do not know how it got its name. It is really just a mini-oven that burns stuff in half the time it takes its full-sized cousin. You can put almost anything in at one end and pull out charcoal ten minutes later at the other. It is a kitchen miracle! My wife is completely in its thrall, constantly thrilling at the discovery of each new thing she can cremate in it.
To her constant – and evident – disgust, I have the habit of falling back onto what I know and trust – the hob, the oven, the microwave – when ruining perfectly good ingredients. I can read the pain on her face when she looks down at what I serve and, disappointment rippled through her every feature, she asks “Why didn’t you use the Air-Fryer?”
We now shop for the bloody thing, deliberately choosing foodstuffs that we can just ‘bung in’. “I really fancy this,” I say, looking at a recipe that is longer than ‘The Book of the Dead’. “It looks awesome.” “I’ve bought burgers,” she replies, “We can bang them in the Air-Fryer with some oven chips.” Oh goody! I cannot overstate my contempt for oven chips. If my wife could find a way of making risotto in the black beast (the only dish I am truly proficient in making) she would be a happy woman.
When I stumble through into the utility in the morning to prime the life-preserving coffee-maker, I always expect to see the Air-Fryer. with its hands around the throat of the toaster, sneering “As soon as she realises I can make toast, you’re done for.” I swear I can hear it chuckling – Blofeld-like – every time the toaster cremates the morning bread. I tell the microwave not to worry, there is always a place for porridge in my day, but it appears unconvinced.
We have a cupboard in the garage filled with such culinary gewgaws – the yoghurt maker, the ice-cream maker, the soup maker, the juicer – all lightly used before being summarily ‘filed’ and forgotten. They each temporarily held sway over the utility counters, but only long enough to discover they were a complete waste of money, that shop-bought is both easier, cheaper and infinitely better, at which point they were condemned to the ‘cupboard from which there is no escape’ and an area of worktop was cleared in preparation for the latest non-essential, waste-of-space piece of electrical gadgetry.
As things stand, I think that I am more likely to end up in the cupboard than the Air-Fryer. We will, in time, reach an agreement – the kitchen dark lord and myself: I will allow it to incinerate my dinner from time to time and it will not oversee my expulsion from the house. Currently I am still able to do things that it cannot – although, admittedly, few of them useful – but I will be in serious trouble if it ever learns to Hoover, and if it refines the art of the perfect gin & tonic, my days are definitely numbered…
My toenail has turned a funny colour and is showing definite signs of wanting to disassociate itself from the rest of my toe. The cause? I do not know. I would like to claim that it is as a result of me doing something heroic – frostbite suffered during a barefoot attempt on Everest perhaps – but it’s probably more likely that my socks are too tight. Maybe toenails have memory and it has just recalled the Winkle-Pickers I wore in the Sixties. I am ashamed to admit that I am blithely unaware of the life cycle of a toenail, but I do understand that they are made from the same substance as hair, so if it does fall off I will give it to my uncle Kevin, who is going bald. It stands alone on my otherwise pristine foot, utterly conspicuous, like a straight man at a Kylie Minogue concert. It does not hurt, it just sits there, shrouded in sock and quietly thickening. Should I try to cut it, I would require bolt-croppers. I could probably sell it in China as rhino horn. (Odd that rhino horn is considered an aphrodisiac whilst my toenail is as far away from that as it is possible to be.)
I can’t help but wonder why certain things get the reputation for having aphrodisiac properties. I suppose that many of them gain notoriety simply because they are phallic in shape (Watch out ladies, I’ve just eaten a cucumber!) but for others, oysters for instance, I can offer no explanation. Looking at a freshly-shucked oyster, I would think ‘expectorant’ rather than sexual athletics. (My wife always insists on bringing a hurdle to bed with her.) People claim that green M&M’s do the trick for them and I would certainly (should I ever feel the need) be inclined to try those rather than the Bull’s Testicle Soup that a subsequent Google Search has just suggested. (Just searching for a friend!) Apparently okra is renowned for its concupiscent properties because it contains magnesium, a natural relaxant (?) although personally I think I’d probably sooner eat a bull’s danglers.
Ginseng, which apparently means ‘Man’s Root’ (according to the internet, because it looks like one, although if it looks like yours I can only recommend that you seek medical help at the earliest opportunity) is probably the best known lickerish additive as it can, apparently, be used in many drink recipes. I’m not sure that a Man’s Root Cocktail appeals if I’m honest. When did two pancake rolls and a single tub of Sweet & Sour sauce to dip them in cease to work? What’s wrong with Barry White on the stereo and a shared bottle of lukewarm Woodpecker Cider? According to Wales Online (I have no idea why) ginger is in fact all you need, so who’d have guessed it, I am myself an aphrodisiac! No wonder my toenail has gone a bit funny…
Should you have even the slightest interest, you can find out about a previous bout of keratin angst ‘The Issue of My Splitting Fingernail’ here.
“…Well, I’m pleased we went.” “Yes, me too, I’m pleased we went.” “I’m sure he appreciated it.” “…Do you think he knew who we were?” “He thought you were one of the staff; that’s why he asked you to empty his commode. He wouldn’t have done that if he’d remembered who you were, now would he?” “I wouldn’t put it past him. He always had a strange sense of humour, Barry, I think that’s why nobody liked him… Would you visit me if I was in one of those places?” “Of course. You owe me money.” “Do I?” “You don’t remember? Maybe we ought to go straight back and sign you in. Where do you keep your Will?” “I don’t have a Will. I don’t have anything to leave – unless you want the Crinoline Lady off my spare toilet roll.” “You have a spare toilet roll?” “Anyway, I don’t owe you money, do I?” “Have you got any?” “On me? No.” “Let’s hope we can find a pub that gives credit then, because it’s your round.” “Francis, my dear friend, I always ensure that I maintain the pecuniary wherewithal to finance your sad alcohol dependence. I have my debit card in my wallet, an emergency ten pound note sewn into the hem of my trousers and, should all else fail, a lead-lined cosh in my pocket. Do not worry my friend, you shall not want for a tipple. And anyway, when have I ever missed my round?” “What about last week?” “Frankie, I was in bed with flu. You came round to mine and drank all four of the cans I had in the fridge and you ate all of my Blue Ribands.” “I brought tea to your bedside.” “Call that tea? It was like warm pish.” “Honey and lemon, very good for you – at least, it would have been if you’d had any honey in…” “…Or lemon…” “…Or lemon.” “So, what was it then?” “Golden syrup and Oxo. I had to improvise.” “You thought that you’d cure me with sweetened gravy?” “At least I came to see you.” “And you ate all my sausages!” “They were going off.” “I’d only bought them the day before.” “Well you should have taken them back, they were horrible.” “Really? What was the sell-by date on them?” “Who looks at sell-by dates? You can smell if things are going off.” “So they weren’t off then? Otherwise you wouldn’t have eaten them.” “No, not off, just horrible. Where did you get them?” “The corner shop.” “You’ve been in Derek’s Bargain Bin again haven’t you? I told you, he just puts the crap out of his own fridge in there. No wonder you’ve been ill, eating all that stuff.” “I didn’t eat it, did I? You did.” “Yes, well I’ve always had a stronger constitution than you haven’t I? Even when we were kids, you were always the weakling.” “I was not!” “You were. You were never at school. Always wrapped up at home in bed, in your muffler.” “My mum was just a bit over-cautious, what with my dad and everything.” “Your dad?” “Yes, and his chest.” “Benny, there was nothing wrong with your dad’s chest. He was on the sick from 1955 to 1985 and I never once heard him cough. ‘Work-shy Wilf’ my dad used to call him. The only time he ever broke sweat was when he had to go and sign on.” “He gave his life to that foundry. All that smoke got onto his chest, that’s what killed him.” “Benny, he smoked sixty a day. I never once saw him without a fag on.” “Can’t have helped, I’ll grant you…” “Staying at home in bed, in the room directly above your dad had to be more unhealthy than going to school. Maybe you missed out on headlice, threadworm, measles, chickenpox and mumps, but laid up there, I’m surprised you didn’t turn into some kind of a kipper.” “Well that’s as maybe, but I didn’t miss out on mumps did I?” “Oh no, I forgot you caught that when you were eighteen didn’t you? You had a ball-bag like a bull elephant. You had to lie flat on your back for weeks. Your mam could never balance the breakfast tray on your bed…” “Yes, well I’m pleased you find it amusing Frankie. It was a scary time.” “Of course my friend, of course I understand. The fear of not being able to have children…” “I don’t think that ever bothered me. I was worried that I would never be able to wear the new flares I had just bought. They had a button fly and very little in the way of non-essential space.” “Yes, you always did like a tight trouser, didn’t you?” “It was the fashion.” “It might well have been the fashion, but I don’t think I ever saw you sit down for about six years.” “Yes, well I’ve got over it now.” “You certainly have.” “What do you mean by that?” “Well, your trousers are exceedingly… accommodating these days, aren’t they?” “I buy for comfort now.” “Yes, you look as comfortable as a man twice your size.” “Well, thank you for your sartorial input, Mr Versace… You didn’t answer me earlier. Would you visit me if I was in one of those places?” “What makes you think that it won’t be you visiting me?” “Well, granted that you’ve got a bit less ground to cover before you get there than me, but let’s just suppose…” “Maybe we could both go ga-ga together.” “Maybe we already have.” “Why do you think that?” “Well ok, take this bus, why are we sitting upstairs and why are we right at the front?” “It’s what we always do.” “Yes, but why?” “I don’t know. Do we have to have a reason? It’s just what we always do isn’t it.” “We used to come upstairs to smoke, like everybody else back then, nobody under fifty ever sat downstairs, I remember that, but why did we start sitting at the front? I don’t remember Frankie, do you?” “No Benny, I don’t, but I don’t think that means we’re going senile either. Nobody remembers exactly why they do everything they do. It isn’t practical. Why do you always wipe your chin with a hankie before you eat?” “I don’t… Do I? I didn’t even realise I did that.” “My point is, Benny, you get to our age and it’s much more important that we remember what we have to do today than why we started doing something else God-knows-when.” “And you think that’s all it is: knowing where we are and why we’re there?” “As long as I can remember that it’s your round, I’ll be happy.” “But what if it isn’t?” “Then I’ll have to hope that you’ve forgotten.” “…Do you remember when you realised that Barry wasn’t quite right?” “Barry was never quite right.” “Yes, I admit he was always a little bit… adjacent… I’ll give you that, but we didn’t notice when he started to change, did we?” “Change? The thing is, we all change all the time don’t we. “And?” “Because it happens so slowly, you just don’t see it.” “Like you reaching into your pocket at the bar?” “Or you stumping up for a fish supper when it’s your turn of a Friday.” “He kept forgetting names though didn’t he? Then he kept forgetting where he lived. Do you think we should have noticed sooner?” “We all thought he’d had too much to drink.” “To be fair, he normally had.” “Yes, and if I’m honest, if I’d lived where he lived, I’d probably try to forget it too.” “Not the best of housekeepers was he?” “Generally speaking, flood did a better job.” “Anyway, I’m pleased we went to see him.” “Yes, me too.” “We should raise a glass to him later.” “Providing we remember…” “Yes.” “Do you know whether this bus turns round at the end of the route?” “We’ve missed our stop, haven’t we?” “Yes…”
Getting On 