A long bank holiday weekend and the scent of charcoal slowly glowing from back gardens. It wasn't quite The Summer Proper, so the traffic and the sights of people jumping off Cattawade bridge into the murky depths of the Stour below (relax; it's no Orwell Bridge. The only risk is hypothermia) were at a minimum.
We forget, those of us who inhabit the area, just what a draw it is for people living in terraced rows in places like Romford, Dagenham and Grays. Delightful scenery, an hour or so from home if you break the speed limit on the A12 from the Brentwood turn-off, big skies and animals grazing in fields and a distinct lack of ice cream stalls, and crap amusements and sticks of rock in cellophane bearing legends of The Sunshine Coast in Essex, with pics of Clacton Pier and Frinton Greensward and Walton seafront.
It's May. Nearly June. Will be by Thursday at any rate. So the clouds are a bit more prevalent and the breezes still a bit chilly and the trees still building to full leafy glory. The sun peeks rather than blazes. The need is for a thermos rather than a 99. The pub gardens are still dogs***-streaked paradises of overgrown grass and fag packets in sandpits and wet benches.
The first play-off on Saturday was a lesser watched affair than the other two. Which was bizarre considering it was the most important. The Spurs and Chelsea fans were waiting for Sunday. The West Ham fans were waiting for whenever they play some eyetie third-raters in the thing wot isn't the UEFA. Saturday was the elderly lunchers, a few straggling drinkers supping their pints of IPA and anxiously looking at mobiles for messages from the wife to say she'd be back from Colchester by 4 and she'd need a hand with the shopping.
It was meant to be myself, Terry and Tony, but Tony cried off with some poxy excuse so Tel alone was dropped by Mrs Tel at the pub at one and, with a promise to collect us both at eleven from the Indian, away she drove. She looked like she'd lost a bit more weight; more apparent in her face than her body. Her spiky chestnut-with-blonde-and-gingery-tipped hair made her look like one of the Riddlers. Only her vintage Buzzcocks tour T-shirt and charcoal tight Levi jeans pronounced her punky heritage.
Tel ordered onion rings, a bowl of chips and two pints of lager. They now do Staropramen on draught so we've both seen the light. It goes well with onion rings; at least the sort they serve in our local, which are mainly dark batter and as crisp as a Walkers.
"Bleeding' 'ouse'll kill me sooner ravver than la'er" announced Tel as he took a closed-eye sip of his beer. "Six times we've 'ad ter redo the lino in the kitching. Six bleedin' times! Said to the missus, bleedin' licence ter print, this place is". He took another, more measured sip and then eyed me with the feign of interest. "Ow's fings 'ere? Our old place lookin' decent for once?".
I had to say no. This was the truth. There's now no reason for me to go round to his old place. I don't have the slightest inclination or interest. They could have pulled it down and be in the process of building a replica of the Moulin Rouge windmill on the site, it wouldn't bother me. I didn't say that, of course. No, I just sort of nodded and said it all seemed the same. He nodded, disappointed and a bit deflated from his previous bluster.
Our food arrived just as we were in a desultory discussion about swimming pool heating. Yes, not something I'm an expert on either. Tel wants to install an outdoor pool with a sort of large gazebo housing a changing room and a hot tub in their new garden. They have around one and a quarter acres of land attached to the bungalow. He's in the process of consulting a local firm to do the work. He was told how the pool heating works but clearly hadn't understood the explanation, which he muttered was done by some spotty herbert in a cheap polyester suit and clip-on tie who drove a work Mondeo to see him around a week ago. Thank God the onion rings and solitary bowl of chips arrived when they did. We'd just got on to what I think was heat transference, and I hated physics at school.
We had a few more and then the game came on and we both admitted we were supporting Luton. Even though I couldn't have cared less and him even less than that. Anyway, a fairly even final ended in a penalty win for Luton. We swallowed the remnants of pints as they collected the trophy and got ready for the walk to the indian.
Three hours later and with stomachs battling beer, brandies, biryani, baltis and bhajis, we picked teeth with minty plastic toothpicks and tried to ignore the deepening wet stains of curry blobs on the starchy white tablecloth. Mrs Tel was due at eleven and it was ten-thirty-five so we had time for a final round of the restaurant brandies, which were better than the ones in the local.
Tel sighed and said his local curry house didn't do it like this. He's had three takeaways exactly so far in Halstead; one was a Just Eat delivery by a swarthy bloke on a Yamaha and a big green box on his back, a large doner with extra salad and chilli sauce and chips and extra meat for him, a chicken kebab with extra salad and a cheeseburger for Mrs Tel. He waved his hand like he was imitating the sea. "Nobbad" he said. "Could'a done wiv a bit more sauce an' the chips were on the lukewarm side, but the wife ate all hers so....". He salved the Chinese with the reluctant admittance that "we probably cort 'em on a bad night, like".
Yesterday. Awoke at 8am with a thumping head and the taste of bhajis when I belched. The morning walk was necessarily abridged so I could hurry back home for a poo. I walked quickly back, ensuring I held off the need to break wind lest it dribble down my legs. I gave Tesco a miss and went back in the car afterwards.
Fortunately I made Tesco after they were able to serve alcohol and decided, once the grass was cut and the jobs sorted, that I'd settle down and watch Carlisle v Stockport and then Everton hopefully slipping out the Premier with a few bottles. I bough big San Miguels and Coronas and Singhas and Porettis. I also bought nibble stuff; sausage rolls you could heat in the oven and bags of tortilla chips flavoured like a popular take-away burger from the King and a few indian snack boxes. I decided on the first beer as I finished the washing and hung it all on the line, just a quick one on the patio furniture as the sun shone. Wasps buzzed around the foaming top. It could've been July.
Well, the footy didn't go to plan. I wanted Stockport. They were 1-0 up as well until the last ten minutes. They lost on penalties. Then Everton won thanks to a screaming thirty-yarder. Lucky b*ggers.
Then today and Barnsleh v Wednesdeh. This was the one I'd fancied most. Mainly to see Sheffield Weds get unlucky again and lose. I must be a play-off jinx though cos they bloody won late into extra time.
It's Tel's housewarming next Saturday. I'm staying the night. Paula has already cancelled. She's pregnant by the way. Her lover, this manager at Morrisons, who is now looking for a better job with Marks and Sparks in London. Tel said she cancelled last week, something about childcare availability and her car's in for a service on the Friday. I just raised eyebrows and nodded, sagely. I'm pleased for her. I really am. It's just I wish someone would tell my face from time to time.
Roll on those lazy, hazy, crazy days. Back for Tel's housewarming in a few weeks, eh? |  |
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