| The Warky Report: York, birthday, ennui, Tel (in that order) 23:12 - Apr 25 with 615 views | Warkystache |
We've just got back from York. A long, chilly weekend in Mid Yorkshire, staying at The Churchill, a modern-gutted Georgian Manor House, put back together using Sanderson drapes and wallpaper and fussy-looking chandeliers, and strange four-poster beds in our room.
Window-shopping, second-hand books down the Shambles, tired feet on the cobbles and oohing at the Minster. P bought a shirt and a pair of smart blue women's chinos in a shop where the price tags made the eyes water worse than their recent floods. I didn't say it, but her boobs looked wonderful in the shirt. You know when some clothes just accentuate a woman's body? Or perhaps you don't? Never mind. Some do, and this did. The valley in the top of her cleavage really deepened against the cotton. I wish we'd gone back so I could buy her another one.
So long drive up, quick walk around the grounds to reaffirm the old blood supply, a few Martini's at the bar, then the room was ready so we unpacked and hung all the stuff that usually looks like you've spent a night sleeping in it if you don't. Then down for dinner, then back to the bar for nightcaps, all smiles and little touches; the sort of stuff that couples did when I was single and which used to make me roll my eyes in cynical exasperation and then briefly wonder what positions they'd do it in when they retired to their room and whether I'd hear it when I got back to mine. Luckily, P's not a roarer. She's a crier and a moaner-like-a-small-kitten-stuck-on-a-kitchen-cupboard type.
So it's my birthday today. Thanks for the mental kind wishes. I spent it driving Paula's car back from York this afternoon. She's gone to bed already. Probably up there now, waiting for me, although more likely watching the latest instalment of some tosh on the telly. Anyway, she can wait. I've had enough sex these last few days. That sounds a bit boastful, and I can only apologise, but you reach an age two years shy of fifty and you feel it, and just fancy a quiet one, frankly.
So yes, another year added to the bewildering phalanx of the rest. A life of memories which flashed before me as I sat here just now, whisky in hand (present from my parents - 18 year old Glenlivet) of pop songs and what they reminded me of (One of Paula's presents was a compilation of 'Now..." CD's stretching back to 1984. We played them in the car on the way home. 1986 was a crap year. So was 1989.
'Through the Barricades' was a first kiss at a school disco. "The Wild Boys' was hill-climbing in North Wales. "Looking for Linda" was a detention at school, looking out of the window and idly watching a blackbird build a nest when I should have been learning french verbs. 'Ebenezer Goode' was a first look at my prospective University. "Country House" was a post-all-night rave in London, mouth tacky from the ecstasy tablet, future wife entering the grey dawn from the club, our clothes smelling of the night and the fags, that strange black sleep in the corners of her eyes, her hand fumbling in mine as we both admitted we still couldn't hear anything properly and then we went back to mine and I hoped my flatmates had washed up or made the house look vaguely presentable.
And then we came to "She's the One" and I had to switch off, much to P's chagrin as she likes Robbie Williams, but then so did my ex, and it brought back the painful and the long-forgotten, fervently despised memories that only time can rid from the mind. And I felt a prat. And she muttered and then cooed and switched back on and, as though in retribution, we had 'Reach for the Stars' just as I traversed the A1 back to civilisation in Huntingdon.
And Tel didn't understand the reference when I told him earlier, in the pub, where we arranged for a birthday drink. No, he just said "But thass a good'un that Robbie Williams" and, coming from a self-professed Wham fan, that was praise of sorts. So I didn't bother explaining further and he cut me off anyway. "The bets all came in Sat'dee" he said, proudly. He sat back like a dog waiting for a petting. I indulged him briefly (although I didn't actually pet the bastard, no, no-one expects that and it makes you both look a bit odd in a busy pub). So we've won another couple of grand or so. Great news. With San Francisco to save for and a wedding next year, it's expensive these long weekends away.
Tel was halfway through telling me a dirty joke, when Mrs Tel arrived at 7 to collect him and me as arranged. He didn't want to but I requested. I fancied a quiet night with a chinese takeaway and P. He was strangely agreeable and, as we're meeting properly tomorrow lunch-time, he was ambivalent. Mrs Tel wished me a happy birthday and gave me a card and a little wrapped gift as I departed their vehicle. It was a funny card, something about syphilis in a nunnery if I can remember it. The present was a hip flask, engraved with my initials. Might come in handy on my walks if I fancy a nip of something to ward off the chill.
So that was my weekend. Must go. Paula's just asked if I'm coming up to bed, from the top of the stairs. 'What ARE you typing at this time of night?' said in slightly irritable tones. Nothing darling. Just my memoirs. "Oh..." said much like she didn't believe me. Then 'we need some more condoms tomorrow, there's only three left'. Oh no. If I don't post the season finale on Sunday, it's probably because she's killed me.
Night all. |  |
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| The Warky Report: York, birthday, ennui, Tel (in that order) on 07:32 - Apr 26 with 428 views | BanksterDebtSlave |
Good luck out there!!
Edit. Ps....Miss Slave has some advice for you but she's forgotten it! [Post edited 26 Apr 2022 7:33]
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