Unplayable has been the theme of my week. The snow continues to refuse to melt, leaving treacherous skid pans on walks and the child-like glee of seeing middle-aged dog walkers go for 'pearlers' of the sort favoured by old silent movies, then the amusement dies in the throat as the concern kills it.
I helped a 50-ish lady to her feet on Thursday, her replica Uggs not the best choice of footwear in the circumstances. She nearly did the splits as I held her arms. Her legs brought to mind old 'Prodigy' music videos as she battled to gain a grip in the opaque ice. She gave a decent demonstration of the Moonwalk (I had 'Billie-Jean' in my head all day afterwards) and then I pitched her onto the gravel and she stood, panting, breath steaming around her, panic done. She thanked me profusely, as did her dog, which nosed my genitals in gratitude before departing for another whirl on the snowy banks.
It was cold in the early hours pre-dawn. I don't have a dog, so my appearance may bring to mind 'mass-murderer-a-burying' for the denizens out exercising canines at 6.45am. I should have taken a shovel and left them in doubt. Truth is, my sleeping patterns are wrecked. Up for work on a laptop at home by 8.30am, but needing exercise, then shower, coffee and breakfast before contemplating pushing the start button for the day, I am a lockdown anomaly. My hair is beyond control and my clothing smells lived-in. I wash it daily but it still hangs and bags and bobbles.
I had company on Friday in the form of Tel, his usual escape from the 'horrors' of Mrs Tel and her constant finding of little jobs he can do. "Mended the gutter this mornin'" he muttered, hands still slightly black from the experience. "We 'ad icicles the size'o' carrots". He sipped his bottled lager succinctly. "Then she wants 'er winders cleaned, all of 'em, wiv Windolene. Well, ah said t'er, aint the wevver ter be outside doin' them, need to wait til Spring, like. But no, wants 'em done. So muggins 'ere (thumb jerked at his chest) ends up freezin' me nadgers off up the stepladder, constantly worryin' the legs'll slip out an' I'll end up splittin' summink". He took an angry pull on the lager bottle and set it back on the table with a bang.
He had the odd amusements during these escapades. "Woman nex' door was 'avin' a right ole go at 'er 'usband, poor sod. Talk abart nag. She's normally quite nice as well. Still, be'ind closed doors an' all that, they can all be a bleedin' nightmare. Betchoor glad you aint got that anymore?". I was. I remembered my wife. I felt a little shiver as well. It crawled down my back and then disappeared again. I just remember the rows and the sleeping in separate rooms. I've never liked the spare bedroom since. It's now full of disused or broken furniture and fittings.
We chatted on, inconsequentially, Tel telling me rumours he'd heard about mutual acquaintances, which I doubted but listened to anyway. Amongst the various topics ("Rob's been let go by BT on a redundancy package, Bob reckons 'e'll get fifty grand. Yer know they own that 'ouse, dontchar?") one stood out and was worthy of report. "Tony's retiring next year" said Tel casually. "'E wants ter move ter Spain, if we're allowed by then and that". He took another swig and swallowed. "We might fink'o' joinin' 'em out there, sorta go 'arfs on a villa wiv a pool. Fing is, wiv me niece doin' university an' me nephew in 'is last year at school, they wanna wait til they're settled an' that so it won't be for anuvver two years at least".
All I could think to say was 'oh'. It had a world of meaning, but the tone was flat, expected almost. Then I mentioned Mrs Tel and Sandy having that contretemps when Mrs Tel went to help them the other week, and he looked uncomfortable for a minute and said "I know" quietly. Then he said "The missus wants ter fink abart it, she's the one 'oo's not that keen on the idea. Me, well yer know, I'm less trouble. I jus' go wiv the flow". He emptied the bottle and I went to the fridge for another. "Money's not an issue for once" he said to my back. It hasn't been for a while.
We collected the takeaway from the Indian. I'm off the booze again by the way. Guinness still gives me a bit of gastric distress, nice though it is. Back to lime'n'soda and my new 'thing', very cold Sprite Zero. Very cold. It's refreshing, if a bit too fizzy sometimes.
The Indian was good. Lamb Vindaloo, Chicken Biryani with veg curry and peshwari naan, sheema kebabs and chicken tandoori and prawn puris and a rogue King Prawn Shashlik Tel ordered as an afterthought. We cried tears over the Vindaloo. Mine had a bit of resonance following Tel's earlier disclosure.
I had a cigarette on my patio chair, a towel placed in the seat before I sat to warm my nethers against the chill. Tel declined the other chair and stood, stamping his feet and blowing on his cupped hands as I smoked. Then he muttered 'bleedin' geddin' second'ry cancer AND hypofermia!" and went back in. I stubbed out on the patio and lobbed the end at a disused flowerpot. He poured himself a brandy from the remains of the bottle he'd brought and offered it to me with a raised eyebrow. I nodded and he poured me one as well. It was one to sip slowly.
Mrs Tel arrived at ten. The beeps from the car told us. I went outside while Tel finished the dregs from the brandy bottle. She wound her window down. I stayed two feet from the car, but then she reached out her arms to hug me, so I went closer. She kissed me. "'Eard the noos then?" she asked. Yes. "And? Wotcha fink? Would purple suit me?" I looked confused. She laughed. "Oh, bin talkin' bout Spain 'ave yer?". I nodded, still a bit confused. Purple what?
"Won' 'appen" she said, dismissively. "Tone 'ates Spain. Can't speak the lingo, dunno wot 'e's eatin' 'arf the time, don' like the 'eat all that much. 'E's a goer, not a beach bum. She's like that as well. They won't be 'appy in Spain. An' I couldn't bear it wivvem in the same 'ouse. Drive me nutty, she would".
Tel came out. "Yer told 'im then?" said Mrs Tel, with a mocking tone of accusation in her voice. "Yeah" said Tel. "Won' 'appen eiver" said Mrs Tel, decisively. Then she gave me a peck on the cheek. "Purple" i queried. "Oh blimey. Finkin' 'o' changin' me lounge colour, found this light purple colour done by Farrows'n'Ball in a catalogue. They call it summink like "Provence Lavender". Tel'll do the paintin' an' that. We can order it online". I caught an expression of hangdog resignation from the passenger seat.Then the car started and they were gone.
Saturday was quiet. My walk was ice-ridden but I remained upright. I eschewed a cooked breakfast for toast and marmalade. I went shopping. I did housework. I checked on our football bet and we won £260. It was strange having no Town game. But not that strange. A relief more than anything. I expected us to draw at Shrewsbury. But we'll know soon enough. Or not, depending on the Salopian weather and the fixture list.
Valentines Day has been quiet. I wondered what my ex was up to, then I remembered it was best not to wonder. In a week of slippery slopes, that one is the slippiest of all. Guaranteed never to stand up again. But it's thawing slowly. Or maybe I'm just getting old? |  |
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