Another walk with Tel. Yesterday at 7am, he arrived, dressed for the chill in puffa jacket, thicker jeans (these were Cotton Traders he bought online. "Needed a pair for ruff, din't I?" he said when I pointed out they weren't Levi. He never said what sort of rough) and tatty Adidas black trainers.
We set off down to the river at Cattawade and then over to the old ICI factory site to walk along the Stour as far as it went. Up back into Brantham, back to Cattawade and home, him pausing every ten minutes to wipe what he said was dog poo off his trainers. This done to his satisfaction on a patch of long grass, we meandered back to Manningtree and thence back to mine.
The promise of a cooked breakfast spurred him on up Cox's Hill and we arrived back at my house with a noticeable eagerness on his part for me to "git that front door unlocked an' git inside ter get them pans on". He removed his trainers "Just in case I never wiped 'em completely, like" on my front door mat and left them to stew in the sun, wisps of steam rising from the inner soles. "Ope no-one nicks 'em" he said, concerned. I nearly mentioned Sitters. It was on the tip of my tongue, but then I thought he wouldn't know what I was on about and this saved me. He'd have said "Oo?" and then looked at me as if I'd gone a bit doolally. He doesn't read TWTD. At least, I hope he doesn't.
The duties were divided accordingly. I cooked the sausages, bacon, eggs, fried tomatoes and beans. He did the toast and made a pot of tea. Then he decided he'd rather have a 'nice bit'o'fried bread wiv it' and so the toast went for a burton and he laid the table instead. He fetched the condiments and the table mats and then spent an age lining them up so they were perfectly square. It made him look a bit 'OCD' to be honest. He supervised the cooking ("turn them snags, they're bleeding' burnin', don' forget the iggs'n'all, I like me beans a bit over if yer knar what ar mean?"). I finally served it onto two plates and we sat at my kitchen table. He forgot the milk for the tea. I made a sarky comment and he said "You only 'ad one job ter do, don' forget".
We ate, messy about the mouth and table mat, him pouring the tea so it made a sound like the first piss of the morning. The windows fugged with condensation and a robin looked in from the sill on my kitchen window with eyes of longing. We saved the bacon rinds for him.
We washed up. I don't have a dishwasher any more. It broke down once too often and in a rage, I took it down the tip. It was the ex-wife's, so the destruction of it had a certain satisfaction.
Tel put down his knife and fork, an unused glob of HP still adorning his plate. He belched and sat back in his chair, picking his teeth with a fingernail. "Don't 'ave a fry up at 'ome, wife in't bovvered, says it smells too much" he said by way of thoughtful conversation. "Probly taken five years off me nachural, that, still, issa treat after that route march you took me on". We drank the rest of the slowly-stewing tea in the pot and then he bid me a good day and drove back home. He's having his garden done next week and Mrs Tel wants it looking shipshape before they arrive, hence the 'rough' clothes and the putting it off by coming for a walk with me.
He didn't come over Easter. They went to Braintree instead. Tony and Sandy and the kids, a "pretty nice" Chinese takeaway and all the accoutrements of Easter, the Cadbury's eggs, the Sunday roast lamb'n'mint sauce, the daffs in a vase. I was seeing friends on Friday so couldn't make that. Our next takeaway will be down the pub next Friday, in their beer garden. I bet it's wet next week.
So the walk was the first time we'd laid eyes on each other for a fortnight, and he was in good form. Mrs Tel is fine. He's got a possible job on with Tony in May, stripping wallpaper and painting walls on housing estates in Witham. "Free 'Undred sovs fer free days work, can't be bad" he said, looking smug. We discussed our Grand National bets and he did Minella Times for fifty quid at 14/1. I did twenty on Cloth Cap. He hasn't rubbed it in yet.
I didn't watch the footy yesterday. Couldn't be bothered. I went for another walk instead and then went to Waitrose for some shopping. My fridge has started making an unearthly buzzing noise which stops when you open the door. Might need a new one. Still it's working. Everything's as cold as it should be.
I saw the result when I came in. 0-0. Expected. Won another fifty quid so it made up for my Grand National. Tel rang me just before the Grand National started. "Bin sortin' out the garden, wife's gettin' on my wick wiv all the stuff she wants movin'. Good footy results for us, weren't they?" I didn't know. "Yeah" he said, a bit deflated by my response. "We 'ad Chelsea, the scum, Barnsley, Bournemuff, QPR, Luton an' Bradford. Free 'undred'n'twenny-nine quid. 'Course...." here he became modest as ever, "they were my picks. You did Man City an' Huddersfield ter win. Never mind...". He gloated a bit more, then he was having an irritable-sounding conversation with Mrs Tel in the background and then came back on and said "Anyway, gotta go" and he went.
We've got the local on Wednesday evening, reopen and ready. It would have been Monday but the landlord has a funeral for a distant relative so he's reopening on Wednesday instead. Tel and I have secured our spots on the table nearest the patio heater at 12pm. I've got the afternoon off work for it. I told them I had a doctor's appointment. There'll probably be some sort of karma to pay off later.
Hope the players had their excuses ready for 5pm yesterday. I reckon a few might be looking for alternative employment come May. Let's hope eh?
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