"This 'ot wevver won' continoo" said Tel pessimistically. We were standing at his shop counter on Thursday morning, him slurping Yorkshire Tea from a cracked Ipswich mug, me with arms full of provisions and papers. He was dressed in cargo shorts and YSL blue checked short sleeve shirt. His knees looked like uncooked chicken drumsticks. He claims he's suffering from arthritis in his knees and back, coming home from Spain, and was hoping he'd get to close early so he could 'enjoy a few rays in the back gardin, like'. Then he snorted contemptuously; the words 'fat chance' not needing utterance.
The week started like a John Updike novel; Tel claiming he had good news about the house which was then exposed as presumptuous; Mrs Tel ''avin' tests' in hospital on the Tuesday, a mysterious episode which fuelled images of her sitting at a hospital bed answering general knowledge questions. Tel evasive on the reasons; she was 'just 'avin' rooteen stuff, like, jus'avin' a butchers'. The sale of the house in Gants Hill died quicker than an SBRL anthem, Tel blaming the market for attracting time-wasters.
So the days went by, and I went off to work and came home and answered illiterate texts from Tel about the house "Is back on agen 600 the y offr" he texted me on Wednesday. I replied 'Great'. Then another at 6.30pm "No god, can t raze it". "Never mind" I replied. I hate texting, much preferring the 'old school' of speaking to someone face to face or by phone. Understanding what Tel is on about half the time makes it worse.
I apologise for introducing a new character so late in proceedings but I wasn't at work on Friday (working from home - or, to be more accurate, the back garden) so got down the shop slightly later and so was introduced to Deano, one of Tel's daytime regulars. Deano is 54, 'between jobs' as a self-employed plasterer, wears a big gold chain, tinted sunglasses and a West Ham home shirt with dried plaster stains on it. He's known Tel since the early '80's, or so Tel told me later. He shook my hand firmly and then went back to the story he was telling Tel about his wife having tests in hospital. "Got sent this letta from Whipps Cross sayin' they wanted to do this mammygram on 'er charlies, 'cos she'd been 'avin' gip'n'that for a while. So she says ter me 'Wot 'appens if they find summink, Dean? I'm fritened they'll opprate" 'n' ah says 'Don'worry love, we'll cope with that when it 'appens. And if needs be, yer can always stuff one side o'yer bra wiv bog roll, 'n'she din't even larf jest started cryin'. An' thass when I noo she was upset, like".
Deano likes Spain and is clearly one of the influences for Tel's decision to sell up. He asked how the sale was going. His gold chain thumped against his chest as he bent down to get his Daily Mirror and his Racing Post. He ordered a packet of Superkings and moaned at the cost ('Bleedin' cost'or'stuff in this country is shameful - nah wonder all the decent folk are leavin') and he said toodle-loo to me as he left (Don' be a stranger). He lit a Superkings from his open packet. "Nice bloke ole Deano" said Tel fondly as he watched him go, Deano surreptitiously eyeing the arse on a young girl walking past. "Yeah" I said. In tones which could've meant anything.
Saturday came brightly, the scent of a warm day hanging in the early morn air as I sat watching the birds and sipping coffee on the patio. The ashtrays have long since been washed out and converted into small pot plant holders, or emergency bird water-feeders. 10 weeks nearly! I don't miss it at all now. I went into town at 12, the sun glinting off the Stour at Manningtree, the tide out, the fields with heat shimmer on them, the birds flying slowly, expansively. Two flies fought each other in the ticket hall. The train was full of purple-shirted Brummies, swigging from cans of Fosters.
The town slumbered in the warmth. Both young and old were out enjoying the unnatural April. The pub was murder and they made us stand in lines for service, like being back at school, waiting for the jammy coconut sponge and mint custard. The game was a roaring texture of brightness and ineptness, the first half excitement confined to watching the bearded blur that was Ed Sheeran in the box nearest the SBRL in the Co-op, wondering where he was off to when he went inside. I've been in an executive box at PR and it was quite nice. No queues for beers or food or bogs, a good view. It's not like being part of the SBRL choir though. Even at 4-0 down, with two scored by the scummy Grabban, we were invincible in our pride and our defiance. Even Ed's bird seemed to join in with 'Poor Little Budgie'. Top marks, Cherry love.
And so it's nearly done. One more time and that's it. If you're going to Reading, good luck and hope we manage something good. If not, see you a week on Sunday. Crap kick-off time and all that, but hey, we're (sort of) back.
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