It's been strange, not having the shop around, no more early morning stops to collect papers and milk. It's caught me out once already; finding myself taking the old familiar roads, as though the car was doing what was expected and no-one had told it.
So I've seen the metamorphosis first hand, seen the new windows being put in, heard the builders' radio, tuned to some godawful R'n'B channel, heard them hammering and occasionally alighting from the open door in vests and shorts, trailing plaster dust, bringing back clanking metal poles or tins of paint. I've briefly glimpsed the interior and been sad at how little it resembles recent memories. It's as if all traces have been banished, locked away in a metal trunk and shipped back to Terry's bungalow, never to be seen.
We had the celebratory party to mark the end of the shop last Sunday at Tel's. It was notable not for who came but for who didn't. No Mickey (for obvious reasons), No Carol (for even more obvious reasons although she had an excuse; she was in Bruges on a coach trip with her parents "'opefully bein' shot by tha' Colin Farrell" said Tel, the film buff). Inexplicably, no Tony, Mrs Tel's brother, who was invited but didn't come as he was taking his son to a gamer's convention in London.
The arrival of Paula and Blake caused the big stir, Tel hopping round them like a lapdog. They brought pictures of their honeymoon and Paula had some grainy polaroids of her mum wheeling her in a pram in the mid 1990's and standing outside the shop. One of them had Tel in it, holding his arms up in the manner of Al Capone confronted by an armed Eliot Ness. A young Paula stood next to him, armed with a water pistol. Tel had a lot more hair in those days. He looked like the Fonz compared to his current state.
Paula formed a harem of women who 'oohed' at her wedding photos and 'aahed' at her mobile phone honeymoon pics, like a safe fireworks display in the kitchen. They'd also nicked all the prosecco, sipping the cheap bubbles from multicoloured plastic goblets as they guffawed at pics of Blake in his trunks. The men graduated from the buffet through to the patio, standing in tight-knit groups with paper plates full of chicken legs and mini scotch eggs, bottles of beer close by. Blake hand-rolled a fag and regaled Terry with Paula's recent promotion (she's now been offered a temporary manager post at Sainsburys in Grays). He didn't bother with me. He never does. I was at the party, fair enough, but it didn't mean he had to talk to everyone.
They left at 10pm, Paula driving, her last J20 sunk. Blake hugged Tel and said "Yer'll be back soon on it", a cryptic comment which I presumed meant 'back to work'. He winked at me as he left. I said "See you Blake" and he smirked and said "Yeah". W*nker.
The rest of the week was a working one, as fast-paced as a tortoise on Mogadon, the bank holiday the only saving grace.
Saturday came, with a cold shiver which turned warm later. I met Tel at 11am and Mrs Tel drove us to Ipswich. We drank immoderately and he got merry and told me funny stories about a neighbour, which I can't remember. He meandered a lot telling them. We did a quick couple of footy bets in Ladbrokes near the Giles statue as we hadn't met in the week. Tel's getting ready for Spain on Monday week; he's bought a new set of short-sleeved shirts and some more towels for the beach. He has 'jobs ter do this week, wife needs a few bits and we're seein' Tone on Choosdy fer dinner in Chelmsford. Goin' to that place called Coat in town". "Coat?" I said, perplexed. "Yeah, fink iss called that, might be french fer summink".
We won 3-0 but didn't look convincing for spells. I won't bore you with more of the match, 'cos others do it better on here. Suffice to say I was very impressed with Kane Vincent-Young, less so with Kenlock, but they both got the job done. It was just the way they went about it. Tel met me at the end, ecstatic that he'd kept his 'lucky' tag with Ipswich, seemingly eager to come and watch another game soon, but in Spain for the next one v Doncaster. We might be going to Sarfend in October. "Sunny ole Sarfend in the winter, could be a larf" said Tel. His enthusiasm might wane before it though. You never know with him.
The train and cab back were full of laughs and drunken reminiscences. "Ah'm 'appier wivout the shop round me neck" he smiled. It was good to hear, but I'm not sure I believe it quite yet. The shop gave him an identity and a reason. Now, once Spain is over, he'll be back to colder climes and longer, bleaker days. I often thought how much bliss it would be to win the lottery and never have to work again, particularly when negotiating dark mornings on a motorway. It's not work that kills you, it's the lack of it. I hope he finds something else to fill the time soon.
Home, takeaway curry, beer, brandy, bed. It had been a good day. Top after August. Who'd have thought it?
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