6am, Saturday. The mist rolled through the lawn like wraiths of the godless rising up from the crypts. The birds sang like a mini choir, the tweets of the songbirds merging with the harsh rawking of the rooks and the occasional foreign bleat of a startled pheasant. The sky promised heat and light later.
The half-pint of iced Aspalls apple juice looked like a forgotten sample on a hospital toilet cistern but tasted divine. Two ring doves, two pairs of nervous eyes on the french doors in case the nutty wild-haired fat bloke in his t-shirt and short combo should erupt and attack, pecked at the leftover cake bits on the floor near the bird table and eyed the newly-cleaned and filled bird bath, the water sparkling early morning diamonds on the rim, with longing.
The last week has seen many mornings like this. Work sent me a laptop and new router so I can finally work from home. So my working day, eight hours, starts at 7am and ends for a 30 minute lunch in the garden at 12pm sharp. It resumes at 12.30pm and carries on til 3.30pm or 3.45pm if I make a sarnie for lunch. During these hours, I make phone calls and compose emails to other folk, strange, desperate emails that I sometimes read back before submitting. But mainly don't.
I work in T-shirt and shorts, even for messenger meetings. I haven't worn socks for the last fifteen days. I'm cleaning the house today, and writing this. I'll be back at it tomorrow. Bank Holidays and weekends have lost their meaning. I keep forgetting what day it is. Don't even bother with the date.
Tel has quit his job. He's working his notice period until July, but he just didn't want to carry on. "Darn't need it" he said during our call last Tuesday. "Payin' more bleedin' tax than anyone, just keepin' fings tickin' over an' we're not spendin' anyfing so ah can live on me savin's. Shame 'cos I liked it but the wife's scared I'll bring it 'ome". He lowered his voice. "Troof is, me 'eart in't innit. They keep wantin' me ter do longer trips up norf an' thass a younger man's game". He went quiet for a mo and then said "Plus the wife's investments mature in September an' that'll be eighty grand". He sounded strangely depressed, as if retirement was a premature notification of withdrawal from life. I invited him for a beer at mine on Friday, which he accepted.
He came earlier on Friday, another wraith dressed like he'd been working down the sewers in his boiler suit and face mask and dirty boots. He divested himself of said garments in my hall and walked in to my kitchen/diner barefoot in his polo shirt and cargo shorts. The sweat was dark under the armpits of his polo shirt and his hair, normally groomed and neat, was plastered to his scalp like the business end of a rat-catcher's mallet.
He damn-near chugged the bottle of beer I gave him (Asahi - his current swig of choice), and leaned back in my diner chair, lightly belching and gasping. "Needed that"" he muttered. I've stocked up on beer and now buy three crates of 24 bottles a time from the local stores, who always have loads. It means I don't need to pop out as often. I've stopped getting a daily paper. There's no news in it. My freezer groans with bread, pasta, meat, fish, ice cream tubs and ice lollies. I make my own Indian treats these days. I made a plethora of samosas from a recipe online last week and froze them to reheat in the oven, to be served with mango chutney and mint yoghurt chutney and vindaloo sauce. I reheated ten for Tel. "Whered'ya get these from?" he asked, suspiciously, through a mouthful of spiced minced lamb and chickpea. I assured him the local Indian hadn't reopened. Folk are a lot more suspicious of you these days, aren't they?
"We're 'avin' a barbie on Sundy" said Tel nonchalantly. "Nuffin' too posh, just me'n'the missus an' a couple of steaks and a bit of cod loin skewered wiv peppers an' onions. I would've invited yer but the neighbours would've called the old bill if they saw us 'avin' guests, wot wiv the isolatin' an' all that. Plus the wife's become bleedin' pooritanical abart observin' the isolatin'. Won't even 'ave 'er bruvver and 'is lot rand. So yer in good comp'nee". I assured him I wouldn't be gracing 'Casa Tel' until we got the go-ahead to resume activities. "Gawd nars when that'll 'appen" said Tel gloomily.
He had a second beer. He took his time with this one, sipping daintily, like a debutante at an opening ball. We finished the samosas and he started on the poppadom scraps I'd cooked in the fryer and then bashed up. "Yer still avin' a walk every day?" he asked. Yes I said. I've still got access to my neighbour's dog, Christie, although she has a tendency not to want to go when I'm ready to take her, so we've called a temporary truce. I can't take her down the beach any more, just in case the Rozzers stop me and I end up in the Mail under a headline "Coronidiot 20" or something equally 'middle-class outrage'. Yesterday, I went to the bluebell wood and back. The day before, I had a stroll along the Essex Way into Mistley. It keeps me fit, and regular.
Tel told a funny story about delivering pre-packed sandwiches to a local corner shop and finding they were mainly cheese and pickle. The owner moaned at him, and he ended up shouting "Ah like cheese'n'pickle, every fing else is a bleedin' extravagance son!". He laughed and said "Ah forgot I was s'posed to pick a pallet each from the boxes in the fridge system an' just took the first row". His laughter subsided and he looked sad. "Thass why ah'm leavin'" he said, soberly. "Ah'm no good at all this lark any more. Paula used ter organise us in the shop in the last few years; ah was too hit'n'miss. Yer do start losin' it as yer get older. Tiredness. That an' demenshur. It cripples ya".
He drank his beer and wished me a happy easter and then paused and rooted in his bag before he got up, producing a Munchies egg and an After Eight egg, both biggun's. I stammered my thanks and he got embarrassed and said "From me'n'the wife" as if it was nothing. We've known each other too long for all that embarrassment though, and he made a joke about Ray sitting on the After Eight one accidentally in the van, so not to "try swappin' it" in the shop if the After Eights were a bit crushed. "At least Ray's arse cheeks won't show - it's dark choc'late" were Tel's parting words as he slung his protective gear over his arm and scuffed his bare feet back into his boots.
And he drove away and I went back into the house to wash the cutlery and plates up and go back to my solitary world.
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