| The Warky Report: Plymouth (H) Hit the ground running 12:50 - Mar 27 with 710 views | Warkystache |
Another week, another Big Game. This time the sun shone and the boozers were packed. Folks wore their faux Ray Bans and shorts. Yes, in March, that month of recent Beasts from the East and rain. The clocks went forward last night. It caught out more than a few dog-walkers this morning.
Last night was also our postponed trip to Chez Tel. More anon. Now back a week from Marbella, he is slowly stretching into a life of quiet pleasure; as bohemian as the Bloomsbury Set back in the early part of the last century, only without the endless dull discourse with E.M Forster on Italian manners and the beauty of the Arno. His is more suited to Brendan Behan and Dylan Thomas, raging against the fading of the light in drab pubs, a pint of viscous amber on a cracked Stella beer mat.
I've made a decision. Whether it's the right one, only time will tell. Suffice to say, the words escape my lips at the moment. Which is another way of saying I've not told anyone. I can't imagine they will understand, even you, who doesn't know me but knows my circumstances. My mum always said I was an enigma. I think too much. Therefore I am.
I can't be bothered relating anything about Paula this week. It was as though life was determined to return to a brittle normality. We got on with it. That's about all that needs saying.
A week blindly working in Birmingham, now a week of leisure courtesy of the start of my annual leave year in April and a need to get rid of the extra days I accumulated since the lockdowns necessitated home working. Allowed to carry over 10 days and having fifteen to account for, I took the five off next week. It appears I'll be doing it on my own; my fiance grumbled at the short notice and then spoke to her manager who agreed she could have Thursday and Friday in lieu of a working weekend. I'll be watching us against Cambridge United next Saturday. Suits me. Terry is coming as well. We've booked Trongs for our evening repast.
So no Friday night shenanigans. This also suited as I was late returning from Birmingham on Friday anyway. I came home at one a.m. I didn't (obviously) have a drink. Another enigma.
Saturday was bright. You know this. But early morning was bright as well, especially the lanes I walked in Lawford. I left P asleep. She was working yesterday so set my little radio alarm for eight. She's tuned it to Radio One, so we're often awakened by some godawful dirge or tinny modern pop sh*t. I've tried to reset to the lesser horrors of Classic FM or Radio Two, but it seems hell-bent on reverting back to witless DJ's playing modern crap. It's as if my clock radio is determined not to join the middle-aged spread creeping over its owner. I'm thinking of calling it Tim Westwood.
The walk at seven was lovely. Crisp, bright, the sea glinting like an eddy in a glass of champagne, the sheep in the fields nuzzling their lambs and soaking up the gold. A buzzard soared and drifted on the currents far above, wings like fingers reaching for creation. I stopped for a cigarette and admired the yachts bobbing on the Stour and the birds wading at low(wish) tide pecking at nothing. It felt like escape. Don't know why.
Back home, armed with supermarket bacon and bread and milk for tea. Paula dressed, fumbling for car keys and smoothing her supermarket uniform, her name badge in green and yellow, proclaiming her name and managerial rank. Green and yellow. My least favourite colours.
She kissed me perfunctorily and I reminded her of the Terries and she raised an eyebrow and nodded and then looked in her handbag to check for something and then, reassured, kissed me again and said 'Bye, be back at six' and she was gone, her car firing first time and reversing away in a growl. I thought of something, someone far-away and was briefly sad. But hey. Home to Plymouth later.
The train from Manningtree was one of the new ones they've started. Long carriages. Uncomfortably new seats. The views rushed by, all greenery and heat haze. We arrived to a busy Ipswich railway, the murmurs of people off for a day in London, late-risers who wheeled small carbon cases and looked harassed. The sound of a brief 'Blue Army' shouted as if someone didn't believe it themselves. A long walk into the Town, past the Ginsters-shirted Plymothians, seeking a beer and perhaps a bite in one of the hostelries.
It's Mothers Day today. I'd sorted mine last Wednesday. Birmingham has a decent Selfridges in the Bull Ring. Jo Malone candles and cards which read light-heartedly in the shop but then looked naff when I got them home; jokey messages about 'the ironing is still there tomorrow, have today off' and the like. My mother doesn't do any other type of humour. She still laughs at the story my dad used to tell about splitting the arse on his velvet bell-bottoms in 1968 on their first date. For anyone else, that'd long since have been one consigned to the bins in the old memory bank.
We met, we drank. The queue for drink grew long. The table service app didn't work; drinks ordered at 12pm didn't appear until one. We sat on a table outside along with countless others and made our voices heard above the hubbub. We ate chicken wings and fries and hot sauces. We laughed at cynical asides and the prospect of play-offs. It was the most fun I'd had all week.
The game, well, you all know, This isn't a match report, despite the title. It was warm. We sang a lot. We were all over Plymouth. This was the Armada doing what it ought against Drake. We missed a few decent balls in. We squinted as Janoi and Wes turned away in frustration, no-one on the end. We need a striker. We've got three but none seem up to the purposes of the job. Norwood twisted and turned like a number 10, but he's not even a speck on Paul Mariner back in the day. The Celebration of our late and much loved former forward just seemed to sharpen the comparison with today's pretenders.
We scored. Then we should've scored again and again but didn't. Plymouth's danger men went off injured. They looked a bit of a mis-matched side and I wondered if they'd make it to Wembley should they manage the play-offs. Still, they had a good run.
The journey home was past the usual half-witted bravado from knots of jingoistic home fans. Too much sherbet on a warm day. The train eventually arrived and I hopped off at Manningtree to walk back home; no stopping on the way for a quick half today. Came in, forgot England were playing (or just didn't care; Tel said it was a great result when we met later and I thought he meant the Town and started saying Burns should've wrapped it up in added time at the end and he looked at me puzzled).
Showered, smelling sweet (Penhaligon's cologne and that Fahrenheit deodorant someone bought me for Christmas and I forgot about) and dressed casually in blue chinos, light blue checked Ben Sherman and a grey waistcoat so I resembled Gareth Southgate, we got a cab to The Terries. We took a bottle of red I hadn't fancied, a bottle of Oyster Bay sauvignon I did, and a Morrisons Best profiterole tower she'd purloined from her store.
Tel opened the door, all sweetness and chinky menus. We ordered enough for the street. Whole peking ducks and crispy chilli beefs and chow mein and rices with every known combination except mushroom.
Mrs Tel greeted us both with a kiss, the waft of heavy Anais Anais bringing brief tears to the eyes, like when I was a child at the local swimming baths and accidentally fell in the foot dip near the changing rooms. She looked nice again; black Givenchy jeans, Lou Reed 'Transformer' t-shirt, light blue lambswool open cardigan thingy (it wasn't a knitted cardigan but I'm no fashionista so gawd knows what you'd have called it). We went for a cigarette in their garden, admiring the new plants she'd added under the arbor in their patio. She seemed to want to talk to me alone; she looked a bit disconcerted when Paula and Tel joined us as well. Paula took one of my cigarettes (she's trying to quit) and looked a bit Lauren Bacall-ish as she exhaled the smoke. Tel made us drinks. Bacardi'n Coke for the girls, a bottle of Estrella Galacien for us lads. We talked the usual homilies.
The Chinese was ordered via Just Eat. It arrived precisely forty-five minutes later, clad in white plastic bags and a cardboard box. Tel paid on his card. The bloke delivering accepted a tenner tip as nothing more than his due. He and Tel were laughing at a joke.
The plates were taken from a very low warm oven and we opened the dishes and bags and decanted pancakes and spring onions'n'cucumber and hoisin sauce and a myriad of prawn toasts and spring rolls and bits of what looked like roadkill onto them. Tel took Paula into the dining room, leaving me alone with Mrs Tel. She gave me the bag of prawn crackers with an expression of friendly concern on her face. I looked at them, suspecting they had black bits or something. But no. She whispered to me. "You 'int 'appy are yer love?". I gawped, or must've looked surprised at this, as she shook her head quickly and then said "Tell 'er. Iss not fair. She's not the one is she?". And, stupidly, for I don't know what came over me, I felt the tears prickle and my throat close, and then Tel came in saying he'd forgotten the 'duck sorce' and it left me quick and she pretended she'd just shown me her new Smeg kettle, saying "Undred and fortee quid though - lot of dosh for a kettle" and he smiled and said "She loves that kettle. duncher love?".
We ate, we had a laugh, we danced to 80's music like we always do. We left at twelve when the cab arrived, waved off by the Terries, she holding me tighter than anticipated when we kissed goodbye. And yet, this wasn't the decision I'd made. I'd be scared to make that decision now. No this was a decision to book South Africa for a holiday this year, a chance to see if we can find ourselves again away from the familiar old haunts and scenery. I can afford it now she's traded in the expensive engagement ring I foolishly bought her. She'd like South Africa. Beaches, sun, lots to do and go to.
It might heal us again. Make us a couple. Despite the sex and the intimacy shared, we feel a bit far from that at the moment.
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| The Warky Report: Plymouth (H) Hit the ground running on 13:16 - Mar 27 with 605 views | J2BLUE |
All the best Warkers. |  |
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| The Warky Report: Plymouth (H) Hit the ground running on 13:21 - Mar 27 with 603 views | Ftnfwest |
My work has decided to ‘second’ me occasionally to our edgbaston office, so up there once every 2 or 3 weeks myself. So if there’s ever a pint and a ciggy occasion… |  | | |
| The Warky Report: Plymouth (H) Hit the ground running on 13:28 - Mar 27 with 586 views | Warkystache |
| The Warky Report: Plymouth (H) Hit the ground running on 13:21 - Mar 27 by Ftnfwest |
My work has decided to ‘second’ me occasionally to our edgbaston office, so up there once every 2 or 3 weeks myself. So if there’s ever a pint and a ciggy occasion… |
For sure! I'll PM you. Although you might not fancy it given all the 'internal' strife at the moment!! | |
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