Windy and wet. The dead leaves stirred and fluttered on the lawn like a wraith. The birds, sensitive to climactic changes, ate more. I'd run out of bread and cake by Wednesday; in my generosity, I've achieved the avian equivalent of North Carolina in my own backyard. One Robin is so fat he'll start demanding Big Macs soon.
The Terries returned on Monday night, their sojourn in Broadstairs over. Tel was slightly tanned; not the deep mahogany of Spain but several patches on forearms and neck which spoke of 'deckchair on beach' and mid-day naps. "Chose a right good week" he muttered when I pointed it out. Mrs Tel too had red patches on her arms and a vee of redness on her upper chest. She'd clearly not sunbathed topless like she often does in Spain. I bet the good burghers of Kent were grateful for this small mercy. She'd have been missed this year by her pervy old Spanish fanbase.
Tel didn't mention the still-moist fake flowers on his hall table. I had a quick surreptitious feel when they both went into the kitchen. Should dry off now they've turned their central heating on.
Tel shivered and said "Woss 'appened ter the wevver darn 'ere then? S'like winta fer gawd's sake", He's started wearing his YSL jumper, a thin, lambswool top that doesn't usually see the light of day until November. He showed me some photos of Broadstairs on his phone. They were punctuated by the sort of obvious running commentary people with limited imaginations make on these occasions. "'Ere's the 'ouse" and "'Ere's the ovver side" accompanied ten or so photos of a 1960's bungalow-type building taken with as much panache as an Estate Agent. The garden took a further nine. The lawn was tan with drought and the hedges drooped. "Good size garden" said Tel admiringly. "Course, we din't do much in it".
We'd got on to the beach by the time Mrs Tel came back, carrying two bottles of Peroni. "Cheers luv" said Tel. She placed it on a raffia coaster on the table next to him. She gave me mine and I said thanks. She smiled and motioned me outside with a flicker of her eyes. I apologised to Tel, who was flicking through his phone looking for photos of the restaurant they dined in on the first night. I escaped gratefully.
We lit cigarettes on their patio, Mrs Tel drawing on hers with a grateful sigh. "They don't sell tens any more, yer know" she said, regretfully. "I asked in this newsagent. I could've done wiv one now an' then". I asked how the week had been and she said "it was alright" in a tone which spoke a world of otherliness. We talked on about pleasantries; the food, the holiday cottage which wasn't (it definitely had a bungalow look) and the locals. She didn't mention Tel. I wondered if it had been more of a trial than a rest.
Tel came out and joined us, coughing delicately as he hit the gently spiralling second-hand smoke. He held his phone like Chamberlain held the letter from Hitler. "Farnd 'em" he said decisively. I stood and looked at several grainy pictures of the restaurant at dusk, lit like a beacon in the shroud. "Best steak ah've 'ad in this country" he declared. "An' lobster. We gotta try this. Coupl'a'ours drive away but iss werfit".
I looked at the rest, politely, making several inane observations which he argued against so they begot conversation. Then he went back inside for five minutes and Mrs Tel asked for another ciggie. He returned just as she was stubbing it out in a plant pot. He held a tray of drinks; two clear with ice and a slice of lemon, one obviously a Coke in a Coke authentic glass. He smiled and offered me the Coke, then laughed and turned the tray so I got the alcoholic-looking one. "Try this" he said, expectantly. I sniffed it and drank. It tasted slightly sour and strong. He looked at me as I sipped. I shook my head. He smiled "Best G&T ah've tried" he said. He went back in to fetch the bottle. "Broadstairs own Gin". It tasted exactly the same as Tanqueray, only less smooth. I complimented it and he smiled again. "Thass the nuts innit?". He drank deep, the ice rattling against his teeth.
As I was going, I managed to slip Mrs Tel three more fags and my spare lighter. Tel went back in the house to fetch something. She thanked me and smiled with her eyes. She looked suddenly sad.
Tel gave me a white plastic bag with 'Broadstairs - home of Kent Gin" on it. The bag clanked so I knew it contained bottles. "A little 'olidy pressie" said Tel. I opened it. Three bottles of Boat Builder beer and a bottle of Broadstairs Gin and two bottles of Fever Tree Tonic. I thanked him. I also went back out and thanked Mrs Tel. She was smoking one of the fags so I replenished her three with another. She went to refuse it, but I insisted. Tel just smiled, tight-lipped.
We met on Friday afternoon. The pub shut at 10pm ("Bleedin' liberty that is" said Tel) so we had time for a few then ordered a bottle of red wine at 9.45, as the pub stayed open so we could drink it. In the end, we drank it in twenty minutes. Tel was saturnine; a mix of post-holiday blues and something undefined by him. I suspected he'd had trouble at home. Mrs Tel seemed in a funny mood when I went there on Monday.
"Bleedin' Tone's not come back ter me abart the job" he grumbled. I wasn't surprised. The new lockdown laws must have affected him. I said this to Tel and he snorted and said "Yeah" sarcastically. We discussed the holiday and the food and he became animated. We had a laugh. We got merry. Then we left and went our separate ways, him promising to call me on Thursday to make arrangements for a curry next Saturday.
I woke early yesterday, at 6.30am, wondering where I was. The dream I had was a strange one. full of strange vistas and fleeing people chasing me. I get loads of dreams like this lately. I put it down to the stresses of work.
I went for a morning walk to shake the feeling away and blow the old cobwebs out. It certainly did that. The rain fell and the wind moaned around the open country. I got mud on my trousers and boots. My cheeks were rosier than a cox's apple. I stopped at the local for a glass of red. They had an open fire in the hearth and I warmed my hands. Not even October and it's red wine and open-fire weather. Doesn't bode well for winter.
I logged in at 2.50pm, code in hand, met with a series of adverts for Screwfix and Aviva, then the pea-green PR turf focused lazily on my screen, followed by a sumptuous long range shot of the Co-op roof. The cameraman, his shots so shaky you thought he might have dropped a lit fag in his lap or suffered an epileptic episode, jerked his way round the stadium showing out-of-focus people moving the spare goalposts and the cones on the pitch.
The two teams appeared; Rochdale looking like denizens of Sherwood in their green shirts. They just needed longbows and little feathered hats. Town entered to no fanfare. We started.
You all saw it, right? We had a good Hawkins header well saved, we hit the post from a venomous Hawkins shot, we controlled the game even despite several daring raids from Rochdale. I was disappointed at half-time that it was still goalless. We'd deserved a couple at least.
Following the half-lime fag, where I left Mick Mills muttering and made a G&T (Broadstairs Gin. I used too much though. It made the players swim in the second half and that wasn't solely the camera work), I went back to find the screen black and had to reload it twice before a message popped up from Ifollow saying it wasn't to be used in pubs. Possibly because the camerawork and several pints combined would make you heave like someone with labrynthitis on a roller coaster.
Anyway, we scored two without looking that great and we won. Top by two goals, maximum points. Happy days. I rang Tel and he said "I won three 'undred quid on the footy bet. Did Town, Man U, Blackburn, Sund'land, Swansea an' Hull ter win". He waited for the congratulations from me. I gave them and asked how much we had in the kitty. "Nearly two an' a half" said Tel. Blimey.
And that was it. Top, two and a half thousand quid to be shared for Christmas and a bit of Tel marriage guidance needed. That was my week. Never mind. |  |
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