I had a funny dream the other night. We were playing a home game but it wasn't Portman Road. My mind insisted it WAS Portman Road but there were bits of it I didn't recognise. Plus I was on the outskirts of town and, though I could see the floodlights in the distance, I never quite worked out how to get there. It wasn't the outskirts of Ipswich either. It was some vastly different place, where the shadows caressed the buildings in the early afternoon sun. It had rolling hills behind it, far off, and broad avenues with little shops and the pubs looked Dickensian.
Still, you're not here to be my psychiatrist. You want Tel, and more Tel if possible. But funny dreams are becoming normal, in the lockdown where I work dressed in my slovenly best and with these four walls as a constant companion. I'm finding it difficult to sleep at the moment. So to Netflix, and the series "Sunderland Til I Die", an amusing, heartfelt documentary about the crash of Sunderland AFC leading to their League One play-off defeat last season. The fans are angry. One woman, fishwife if ever the description befitted one, moaned in the Wembley sun as she contemplated the loss "Why's ert neva oos?". And I thought 'but it was you more recently than it's been us and now we sit, furloughed and comfortably mid-table, without a play-off hope to our name". So my sympathy evaporated like piddle in a sauna and I switched off, more depressed than ever.
Tel is no help at the moment. Forlorn and regretful over his decision to quit his job, and with no end to the virus in sight, he came to mine in his boiler suit and face mask in his van yesterday evening with a sour look and a hundred petty grievances I couldn't find much sympathy for, much like those entitled Sunderland supporters on Netflix. He accepted his beer with a grunt of thanks and sat, feet up on my kitchen stool, berating a world where he couldn't go for a pint and a curry amongst like-minded souls.
"Bleedin' kitchen needs a decent once-over" he remarked as he traced his finger over a layer of toast crumbs I'd forgotten to clear from lunch. I nodded, too weary to argue. My work laptop keeps crashing so I've had to switch the modem they provided on and off a lot, which helps for about two hours before it happens again. He glugged the beer and rested the bottle on the table. "Dunno if I've done the right fing in quittin' this job" he announced soberly, scratching an itch on his neck lazily. I couldn't help. Only he knows why. "Trouble is, they keep askin' me ter go ter places I'm not keen on. It was Bluewater terday. Iss Milden'all an' Cambridge termarra. Lot of drivin' an' for what? I got paid fifteen 'undred after tax this munf cos they cancelled overtime an' everyone says I'm lucky ter be workin' at all".
'Everyone' it turned out, was Ray, his co-driver. As is known with Tel, he has difficulties getting on with other men he works with. Ray is also ex-army, so probably more inclined to just get on with it without moaning about his lot. I suspect being in constant working contact with Tel is a bit like sharing lockdown with Tony Hancock. The moaning must get on his tits a fair bit.
"Ray's OK normally though" said Tel, as though reading my mind. "I mean, 'e gets cheesed off like anyone but 'e don't let on. "is greatest difference from that Callum is 'e don't eat McDonalds eiver. Thass a blessin' in disguise, not 'avin to stop at every drive froo we pass. Ray likes 'is 'omemade sarnies an' 'is flask of tea an' 'is Penguins. 'E's nah bovver really".
He took the second beer I proffered with another grunt and sipped. I'd not been to the local supermarket all week so couldn't offer Indian snacks and dips and I couldn't be arsed getting some out the freezer to reheat, so I just finished up a bag of Chilli and Lime Poppadoms and some Bombay Mix that's been hanging around my pantry cupboard for a few weeks. He ate these with relish and didn't comment on the lack of samosas, so I think I'm in the clear. I'm off to the supermarket this evening, when I can be bothered to take a shower. The natural state of order and discipline has fallen sadly since I started lockdown. Even the daily walk has become a chore since my neighbour's bad back vanished and he has now stopped asking me to take his dog. I'm conscious of putting on weight and needing a haircut. I'm sick of the telly.
We didn't even talk about our hopes of travelling the USA next year. Tel said something, half-heartedly, about it, but then lost interest. Mrs Tel is fine. They've had sporadic email contact with Tony and family and they're all OK. Paula's working full-time and weekends, even Blake is back working with his brother, earning good money by doing emergency call outs. And then there was me, stuck at home with an underlying health condition, sending emails and doing work all day, retiring to a dull routine of dinner/telly/bed once the laptop stops grinding. My mind doing cartwheels and preventing sleep.
He left, his van careering round corners, his face mask and boiler suit folded neatly on the passenger seat. Home for the night, back to work tomorrow. The days ground on, into the distance, like an Escher monograph, all monotonous patterns. Tel blames the Chinese. I said I've not had any for weeks and he looked puzzled and then laughed. "Nah" he said, "not lark that". But it's true. I'd welcome a bit of sweet and sour. It's certainly missing from somewhere at the moment. |  |
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