| The Warky Report: Sunderland (H) 13:56 - Dec 19 with 807 views | Warkystache |
Birmingham, 3.45pm. The dusk fell sharply, like a blackout sheet being tugged closed over a lit window in an air-raid. The shop windows gleamed. The Frankfurt Christmas market sold tots of Gluhwein and steins of piss-coloured beer to people clad in North Face and Superdry anoraks. The smell of cinnamon-steeped hot chocolate and roasting sausage combined with the diesel and the chill.
I went looking for cold remedies in Boots. Fortified by a medicinal (and burning hot) mulled wine from one of the German stalls, served to me by a pink-cheeked elfin woman with pigtails and a metal ladle resembling something a Nazi may have used to beat genitals to a messy pulp, I carefully sipped the boiling brew as one might sip viscous brimstone. The delicate skin in my lower lip had screamed upon an inattentive mouthful as I crossed the road. I nearly gave the whole boiling mess, in temper, to a lolling beggar who asked, in a pitiful voice reminiscent of the pig in Pipkins, "spare som chayyyynge mite?". Instead, he got all the loose copper, silver and the odd gold nuggets from my pocket.
The woman in Boots on the medicinal counter recoiled as I spluttered through my face mask about 'subthing for a cold". She idly fingered a bottle of Night Nurse, then asked if I was driving or operating heavy machinery that eve. I nodded, perplexed. She moved on to the Day Nurse. Then she asked if I had a temperature, or a continuous cough, or might be syphilitic, or possibly pregnant (eyeing my belly with a certain respect not borne of any admiration). I pondered. I did have a continuous cough, I nervously agreed, but then again I smoked like the sugar beet processing chimneys in Bury. And it was bloody hot in Boots. They must have turned the central heating up to "Sub-Arctic". She nodded again and gave me five Covid test kits of little plastic bottles with cotton buds inserted. I thanked her and bought the Night Nurse, Day Nurse and a packet marked Cold and Flu Relief Max Strength, which she slapped on the counter. The queue behind me vanished at the sight of the Covid testers. They took their sundry pink fluffy hot water bottle covers and bottles of TCP to the other tills.
Coming home, I had three texts. Two from Paula (Gonna stay at Mum's tonight, we're going for dinner at Luccas) and (PS I love you). One from Tel (currey? 7pm. Well pick u up wife). I don't need a wife, I thought. I've sort of got one.
I got home and did one of the tests. Negative. I binned the McDonalds paper bag with the remnants of Big Mac box and regular fries box and regular takeaway tea. Kettering. It's a tempter on a long drive home when you haven't had any lunch.
Sunderland tomorrow. Last big home game before Christmas. The Omicron variant warnings spluttered out of the radio and from the papers and the telly as I'd come back from the Midlands. I discussed it with Paula on Wednesday night, our post-coital glow and fag relapsing slowly into morbid common-sense and pragmatism. She gathered my duvet around her and then suddenly jumped out of bed naked to find her phone in her handbag. Her bum's lovely. Sort of teardrop-shaped. It makes mine look like the stubbly spotty flabble it is. I got the full-frontal when she came back. The blood coursed hopefully back into my flaccid member, but she kissed me distractedly as she scrolled through her phone and any hopes of a second coming ebbed like the plug being pulled.
"Its here" she said, excitedly as she tapped and swiped, the screen light illuminating her face and neck like the shop lights in Brum. Then she read "Don't ignore a cold, do a PCR" and she turned to me, excited, so I could read it myself. I read it in a mock-funny voice, 1930's BBC announcer-type, but she didn't laugh and I felt a bit of a prick. I used the bodily closeness to swoop in for another kiss, but she recoiled much like the woman in Boots and I ended up smooching her shoulder. "You need a test" she said. "It'll save you from wondering". So I ungraciously admitted defeat and she leant over me to switch out the light. "Try sleeping on your side" she advised as we settled down. "It might stop you snoring". Then all went quiet. She woke me at 2am, snoring herself. I recognised the irony.
Friday night in the Indian. Mrs Tel cautioned that most cold remedies "don' work, yer need Vitamin See don'cher?". She dropped us in the car park and threw up gravel as she reversed. She spent the journey regaling us with her hair appointment. She's booked to see a new hairdresser in Colchester next Tuesday. The woman rang her to have a half-hour conversation about what she'd like done. "So'm 'avin' 'eyelights, blonde ones win a bit'o' brown and gold". Tel snickered and raised his eyes. "Undred'n twenny quid" he whispered as we stood watching her depart. "Still, Iss Chrismuss innit?".
The Indian had made a go of celebrating a festivity none of their staff probably understood or shared. The Christmas tree, albeit plastic, shone myriads of red, blue, gold and pink lights in the corner. The tinsel and gold decorations wafted with the opening of the door to admit black-trousered, white shirted waiters. The poppadoms had a little gold sheen sparkling on their exteriors. I hoped it was edible. Tel's chicken shawarma starter glistened with pomegranate seeds. He took these out, carefully, discarding them like red bogies on the side of his plate.
The tandoori lamb chops arrived just as he was telling me about their Christmas preparations. "Got the meat" he said, as though this was a distant-past reminiscence. "Swiss Farms in Ashburton, nah, Ash summink, anyway, they're the best. 'Ole turkey crarn, stuffed wiv pork stuff, coupl'a'fillet steaks for Boxin' Day, nice bit'o' 'am on the bone, can cut an' come again. You and Paula won't go 'ungry" he chuntered, slewing a bit of lamb chop and sucking the bone clean. "Ah knar Paula loves a bit'o'meat" he leered. I smiled back at this, feeling the common cold blush my cheeks a bit. "Bit bein the operative word" he countered at my smile.
We drank brandies after the feast, me belching back the taste of the chops and the curry and a bit of Day nurse I'd swigged from the bottle before venturing out. I read another text from Paula ("Just had a nice pear and walnut salad and a piece of Halibut, how was your curry? Love to Tel. I love you. P xx) and felt a bit of a pig for a second. It didn't last. I'd rather be swilling brandies with Tel than facing the third degree from her mum about weddings and babies and all the associated sh*t that only seems to interest prospective Mothers-in-law. I shuddered at this. She'd be my new mother-in-law. Tel read my mind. "Paula is it?" he asked. "Noticed yer face go a bit pale there, weren't finking'o' er mum as yer mum-in-law were ya?". I nodded, amazed. "Well" he said, as though weighing up options. "She might not be ararnd when it 'appens. I'd console myself wiv that If I was you".
Mrs Tel picked us up at eleven, still warbling on about her hair appointment. She looked smart tonight; charcoal leather jacket, Stranglers t-shirt in blue with red logo, tight black jeans and moccasins. ""Ad too much tea drink again, tel?" she scolded as he nearly fell out the passenger seat trying to find his seatbelt. He grinned and said "Wot, me?" in a choirboy tone. She switched on her CD of Christmas Hits and we sang along to "All I want for Christmas" like wolves baying at a moon.
Saturday. Awoke alone. Paula at work, so the bed felt strangely spacious. I found a pair of her knickers on the bedroom floor and (I'm sorry by the way, but this was every bit as pervy and desperate as it reads) sniffed them. They smelt of scent and something minty. I washed them anyway. Along with the bedclothes and pillow cases and my work trousers and that jumper she bought and wore once and then hung in my wardrobe. I didn't even wash them all together. And I added soft rinse. A sign of domestication by proxy.
I didn't fancy PR. My cold felt a bit worse and I had a sore throat, although this may've been less Omicron than drunken snoring. My first fag, smoked on the patio amidst the mizzle and the grey, tasted harsh. The birds watched me intently, awaiting their Saturday morning treat. I kept them waiting. I had a walk instead. Rasping breath and getting cold, I left the dog-walkers to it and headed for Tesco. The store music was "Wonderful Christmastime" by Paul McCartney. I found the bacon and the milk and then saw they had an offer on sausages so bought a pack. Back home, did sausages and bacon and beans and toast and a massive teapot with six teabags in it and sank back with the Times and did the Sudoku and the crossword and read about the Premier League games off and the lack of vaccinations in footy generally.
I did another test, rolling the bud thingy around nostrils til it made me sneeze and making sure I blew my nose first in case something brown or, worse, green or white flicked out into the testing pot. Negative. I took a photo on my phone in case P questioned me about it later.
At twelve, and with washing done and hung on my mum's old airing rack in the bathroom to dry, I finally decided not to risk it. I want a good Christmas at Tel's. You want it as well, so I can tell you about it. Going to PR and risking catching the virus might well curtail my chances. I'm only in Birmingham on Tuesday next week, and that's only for our Christmas meeting at eleven. I'll be home by four, hopefully. The rest of the week, aside from Xmas Eve when I'm off for two weeks, I'll be working in Colchester. My chances of developing Omicron are slight, even despite the booster jab I had two weeks ago. I chickened out, basically. Still, it's my season-ticket and I'll do what I want to.
Paula was pleased with my decision. She said it showed responsibility. She rewarded me with a prolonged smooch in front of Strictly after a dinner of chicken in white wine sauce with new potatoes and leeks. We had the smooch for pud. I didn't notice who won Strictly as I don't care. Paula was thrilled it was the deaf girl. I was just thrilled we only drew 1-1. New man in place, new team hopefully come January. Better drilled and organised. No more sloppy defensive lapses and no more Toto Nsiala.
So Happy Pre-Christmas one and all for the week. I'll be back on Christmas Eve afternoon. It's the dreaded visit to Paula's Mum. "She's got us a Water filter and a coffee machine" said Paula on Saturday evening. It defeats the purpose of a Christmas surprise, surely, just telling people what you've bought them before they've even unwrapped the bleeder? Still, shouldn't be too judgemental. That said, Christmas Eve afternoon, 12-4pm for lunch is not a date I'm looking forward to. We're even giving her carer a lift home after. I'll tell you more on Friday....
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| The Warky Report: Sunderland (H) on 16:21 - Dec 19 with 633 views | J2BLUE |
I nodded, amazed. "Well" he said, as though weighing up options. "She might not be ararnd when it 'appens. I'd console myself wiv that If I was you".
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