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I've now spent more time at home than I did when I left University in 1995, albeit with less threatening letters from the bank about my overdraft and the possibility of my repaying it.
I was a bit of a mess back then; I grew a wispy, effeminate beard and started wearing sandals. All of my friends were working in London. They had to. With access to student loans and grants finito, it was a case of finding work or basically resuming a sort of Withnail life, squatting in dumpy housing and ekeing out the dole for a four-pack of Skol and a saveloy on a Saturday night.
I never fancied that. Home meant comfort, regular washing, the chance to rebuild a life derailed by indolence and too much weed. I got my First, which sort of kept my parents happy, although my dad did keep on about postgraduate stuff 'if you're not getting a job". Twenty-one years old and I should have had life in the palm of my hand. Funny how things work. I eventually tottered into social work, then ran as slowly away from it when it became difficult.
I was reminded of these pasty, idle days by Tel, who is getting the old stir crazy feelings and he's not even stopped work yet. "Bleedin' unemployed, that'll be my lot come the third of July" he said, mournfully. I did remind him that he was the master of his destiny, that he had more money than 99% of the other people I personally knew, and that at least he wasn't walking away because he had to. He looked at me sardonically "S'Alright for you innit? You'll be back up that A14 the minit they say come back. You aint stuck at 'ome wiv a wife 'oo keeps pointing' art little jobs yer could be doin', lark the decoratin' or the drains". He sniffed and looked disconsolately at his Estrella bottle. "Iss a pain in the proverbials to be 'onest".
The start-up of horse-racing cheered him, although he's done a hundred quid on our account and not won a bean back yet. "Goin' by names" he told me, confidentially. He showed me his betting tips. One was called Desperate Don. Who's Don? I asked. "Yer know Don, bloke 'oo used ter buy all the locals off me when I 'ad the shop, lookin' ter see if 'is mate Robin 'ad started 'is old window-cleanin' bizniss up again. Bit o' claret spilt there. They were partners, like, fer twenny odd years, then Robin offers 'im two grand to quit and starts up under 'is old name. Don's Deepkleen. Remember them? Used ter do mine at the shop an' my 'ouse, til Don came in an' warned me 'e was out. Poor ole boy never recovered a'rter that. Went a bit nutty. 'E was the one 'oo got done for that flashin' case darn at Dovercourt sea front. Couldn't prove it. Let off wiv a fine and a caushun".
I wondered how Tel thought this would make a surefire winner. "Well, yer gotta feel for the bloke. In a care 'ome now. Daughter won't see 'im cos of the flashin' fing". I nodded. It all made perfect sense.
We had fish and chips round his last night. It was due to be Friday but then it was put back to last night. "Wife wanted to wotch Eastenders" said Tel. It's typical of the lockdown that such arrangements are so fluid and yet don't put anyone out. The chippy was busy with folk waiting patiently on the pavement at least three feet apart. We ordered three large cod'n'chips and Tel asked for a large tub of mushy peas and some curry sauce. The mushy peas reminded me of green juices my ex-wife used to make for breakfast. The curry sauce was tepid.
We carried the spoils home in a Tesco carrier, the fat and the vinegar competing for scent dominance in the car. Tel unloaded all on his kitchen counter and then reached for bread and butter, which he laid carelessly on a plate. "Fer chip butties" he announced to no-one in particular. "Gotta 'ave chip butties wiv a fish supper. Chips'n'sauce'n'mushies" he drooled, making one to show me what he meant (and nicking three of my stray chips to do it). Chips, a blob of curry sauce, some Daddies brown sauce and then a liberal coating of mushy peas. It looked like something you'd find squashed on your windscreen.
Mrs Tel was radiant. Her local home hairdresser had been out on Thursday ("In a mask an' she kept 'er distance" asserted Tel, just in case I was the Covid gestapo) and she sported newly-trimmed and coloured tresses, in the same brown as the curry sauce, I noted. "'Ello luv" she said and gave me a peck on the cheek and a hug. Her highlights shone like cherry wood under their lounge spotlights. She had some American masked singing rubbish on the telly, which was turned down (but not off) as I sat on their settee awaiting the proffered lager from Tel.
We ate the fish'n'chips in their dining room. Tel decanted the mushy peas onto each plate, unasked. Mrs Tel studiously ate around them, as though they were kryptonite. We chatted about the lockdown and the people we'd seen, which was a brief chat punctuated by faux outrage at 'the libities sum people take rand 'ere' as though they'd been spotted sunning themselves in Tel's back garden. "Ah saw loadsa couples wiv their kids walkin' darn ter the beach when I was drivin' back from Tesco the uvver day" said Mrs Tel, in tones of indignation. "Course, they'd bought up all the picnic stuff so I couldn't get Tel's rolls fer 'is lunch or nuffink". "I 'ad to take sandwiches" said Tel, proving her point. "An' ah like 'am rolls more than sarnies, the tomaters don' make the rolls soggy".
Tel loaded the dishwasher as we went outside for a ciggie, Mrs Tel carefully blowing her smoke away from the back windows and flicking her ash into a pottery thing she kept on the low wall leading up to the lawn. Her patio heaters were switched on and my shirt became clammy as I backed right onto one. Mrs Tel told me a cautionary tale about her brother, Tony. "'E's 'ad 'emmaroids fer a while, right? So 'e's usin' that cream stuff to cool 'em an' rearly, 'e needs an op. So I says to 'im 'Go private and pay fer it, they'll do that straight away. No good bein' in pain from 'em an' not bein' able to sit darn prop'ly is it? An' 'e goes 'nah, waster money. They'll go of their own accord'. "E's daft. I 'ad 'em back when the waiting list was huge and Tel paid for mine ter be done private at The Oaks in Colch'ster. It was Gods own pleasure. "E won' do that though. Scared of it, 'e is. Never liked 'ospitals".
Tel came out just then and announced profiteroles for pudding. I declined. Mrs Tel made a face at him so he went back in. He came and joined us outside with a tiny dish with about three of them on it, which he munched as we smoked. He also brought me a brandy. Then he finished and went back in and came out with another brandy glass and the bottle. We finished the bottle, which was just over half full, and then he went back in and bought out a new one, fiddling with the seal on it to replenish our glasses.
We got hammered. The discussions became more slurred by the minute. Mrs Tel had one more cigarette and a can of Diet Coke and then disappeared, never to return. I later found her laid on their settee, watching Beaches with Bette Midler. Tel said "She's bleeding' antisocial at times. When Sadie 'er 'airdresser came rand on Fursday, she couldn't wait fer 'er to go after 'er treatment an' then she cleaned everyfing with Flash; floor, doors she'd touched, all that. She's still terrified of catchin' it. She's only up now to wait fer you to go, then she'll wipe everyfing darn again". I took this as my cue. It was half eleven. I rang the taxi company. They told me they'd have a car within 15 minutes. I went back out and told Tel. He nodded and poured me one more brandy for the road.
The taxi arrived at ten to twelve and I said my farewells. Mrs Tel was asleep on the settee, so I whispered bye to her but she never stirred. I swear I heard a sort of snore. Tel, hyperactive from the brandy and boisterous, had a chat with the taxi driver, George, who he'd known as a regular in his shop. I hoped he wasn't running the meter. Tel gave him his life story since they sold up. I noticed he was very dismissive about his current job. 'What do you really want?' I thought. I also wondered if life post 3rd July would be filled with a lachrymose Tel, whining on about quitting. But he wants out. He doesn't want to be driving to Bradford regularly, and that's the type his employer needs.
We said goodbye again and he said "Fridy rand yours again fer a ruby?" and I nodded. The taxi went. I sat in the back as the masked driver spluttered niceties about Tel and the shop, fondly reminiscing. My replies became shorter and shorter. He dropped me at home and charged me twenty-five quid. I gave him thirty and said 'keep the change'. He was pleased with his tip.
And so I opened the front door and life went back to being as it has been for these last few months. Still, the brandy helped.
We drove down the A12 on Friday night and commented that you and Tel were probably getting hammered somewhere near....too early as it turned out. Just read this to her as we drive back up somewhere near Chelmsford.....she audibly gasped at your hug and kiss from Mrs Tel .....I said, "This isn't Eastenders" but it turned out she was just concerned for your health. Any chance of a cuppa tea in about 40?
"They break our legs and tell us to be grateful when they offer us crutches."
The Warky Lg 1 Report: Sunday morning is everyday for all I care (H) on 21:04 - Jun 7 by BanksterDebtSlave
We drove down the A12 on Friday night and commented that you and Tel were probably getting hammered somewhere near....too early as it turned out. Just read this to her as we drive back up somewhere near Chelmsford.....she audibly gasped at your hug and kiss from Mrs Tel .....I said, "This isn't Eastenders" but it turned out she was just concerned for your health. Any chance of a cuppa tea in about 40?
Love to matey. Only i've started on the brandy again. Watching The Day of the Jackal on Sony Movies with the ice hitting my teeth.
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