Phew. The heat was on. Walking into the ground felt like wading through a bath of warm tomato soup. Even I, inured to a warm-ish wander, kicking up dust and scraping past dry fronds the colour of a vodka red bull, even I felt the prickle on the old brow. That was later. This should start at the beginning.
The phrase 'I wander'd lonely as a cloud' though reminiscent of hot afternoons in double English, watching the blackboard chalk dust catch the odd ray of sunlight and glitter like a disco ball, was apt last week. Work got in the way of course, but even then I was excused Birmingham. The Commonwealth Games may have meant little to Adam Peaty, but to Brum it was the London Olympics in 2012, albeit with less funds shoved. We were offered free tickets at work for events I would usually run a mile from in real life; crown green bowls and judo and netball and possibly tiddlywinks, although these weren't delivered. The GPO probably nicked them, like they did our tickets to the opening. I couldn't make it anyway. Too much to worry about.
Those who saw my effort midweek will want answers or at least an update. Well, P is still clinging on at Morrisons. Grimly, like Frodo climbing Mount Doom, she keeps her head down and waits for an opportunity. She might have one as well. One of the managers at the Chelmsford store is retiring in December. She's got in first, a bland enquiry which may answer more than one set of prayers as her bosses contemplate and realise this could be the 'best solution'. Same money as now, lesser journey and we keep our staff discount. We're spending a lot on bottles of vodka and Red Bull and wine and song and dance. In Morrisons because we get 25% off our shop, which sounds pitiful until you realise that last week our shop would've cost £200 but actually only cost £150. Small mercies.
She's not pregnant. It was the stress that made her late. Barely had I written the words than we were back on the Always and the Tampax. It was relief from my point of view. I've always been a bit selfish. Like wanting Forest to be relegated from the Premier, or Norwich to be declared bankrupt, or us to sign Sam Nombe from Exeter just because a Brum supporter at work thinks they will once the takeover happens. P was disappointed, natch. But it wasn't the same eviscerating disappointment that it has been. This was acceptance with a frown and a blink of tears. A hug helped a lot.
Tel and I lead different lives at the moment. He couldn't meet on Friday - out at Braintree and they were all off to see Where the Crawdads Sing, which jolly well sounded like it served him right. "Dun't unnerstand it" he told me in a late-night call from his garden, Mrs Tel asleep on their settee. "Missed a beer an' a curry" he added, as if in atonement. They ate at some chain Italian. He had something doughy he couldn't pronounce. "It 'ad sausage on it, an' chilli an' like green stuff" he volunteered when I asked for a description. Hmm. He's no Gregg Wallace.
He was due to come yesterday but cried off, so if you had a spare seat next to you in the Sir Alf lower, that's why. "Too 'ot" and "Yer mad" were the jist of his excuses, although he said he'd come to Barnsley at home on BH weekend so it'll be me getting him another ticket on the website.
Aside from this, the week was Tel-lite and I'm sorry, mainly for you lot who read this column mainly in the hope of another fix of my ex-newsagent. I can't contain him though. He is as a pawn to the missus, who clearly wishes she was nearer her brother and sister-in-law. He admits that she has wanderlust as far as Braintree is concerned. The trouble is, they have the money to make it reality. No mortgage required, as Phil Collins might have released in the mid-80's, the rich prick.
This morning's walk was amid a paean of happiness, despite the early warning of warmth later. I went down to the river and watched the sparkle on the little wavelets and the cormorants drying wings on fences and the sheep luxuriating in fields, shorn of fleeces and reminding me of skinhead photos of Tel when he was a teenager. The sweat prickled again but was tolerable. Not like yesterday. I didn't need Factor 50 sunscreen today. I was glad I had it on yesterday, even if it may have been a mistake putting it anywhere near my eyes when I sweated.
I reached town courtesy of the one-every-two-hours train to Norwich at just after 11am. Bloody train strikes. It was murder; standing room only and that at a premium. The blue shirted home supporters mingled with women in vests, shorts and cheap sunnies who fancied a day in scumville shopping. The variety of tattoos on show were mind-numbingly different in design and quality, from stunning birds of paradise to prison-issue faded black anchors of the sort even tramps would scorn. Legs, arms, necks, the odd face, the odd hand, feet, probably arses and knobs, no space that looked bare without an inking was spared.
Met friends, drank loads, ate wings with a sauce so hot for a minute I thought the air con had failed. We left, staggering, sore sock-less heels in trainers, wincing at the sun and the heat, dipping in the brief patches of shade outside stores, wondering if it was too hot for a hot dog with extra onions from the van in Sir Alf car park, carrying bottles of water which never happens on a normal match day. Water? Wassat then?
Finally amongst the short-wearing brethren ( I haven't got the legs for shorts. Too fat. And my legs don't attract much hair for some reason) I stood and belted the McKenna song and the Down or Ever up song and the other songs we sing when we're not doing those. They came out. Mk Dons had clearly come by coach judging by the small crowd huddled away from the sun in the away end. I was glad Tel hadn't come after all. He'd have done the usual Nescafe signs and the goads. It was barely worth it yesterday.
You all saw the game and people cleverer than me can tell you all the intricacies of our passing and the technical stuff. All I know is we danced and cheered when Wes wheeled away, then again, albeit a bit mystified when Harness ran with arm outstretched and was swallowed by team mates and the teensy scoreboard in the corner said "GOAL". I still couldn't make out the replay. Must need my eyes doing.
Then half-time, chat with Luke, games with water bottles, blokes eating pies as we wilted in the heat, teams back, 3-0, Conor Chaplin, a few subs with us comfortable, a bit of keystone cops passing, Sone Aluko chance straight at the keeper, final whistle, cheered KM and the lads, went back outside, lit a fag and made the hot, sore-footed walk to the station, cheered by news we were top and the scum were bottom, albeit in different leagues. But it's happening innit? Definitely.
Back home and Paula said "Shall we go for a drink and to Luccas?" So we did. Drink in the local, no Jamie, quietly sat in the corner away from the bit where I normally sit with Tel, whispered romantic conversation, holding hands tenderly over my pint glass and her large VRB. Then the walk to Luccas, table at the back, more romantic chat, an embrace before our starters, chatting inconsequentially about work, life and love. And I thought, perhaps unfairly, "this is better than it ever is with Tel" and made a mental resolution to do this more often, perhaps giving the Friday nights a miss for a while. It'll be tough on you lot because, Friday nights aside, I don't really see Tel too much. And I'm sorry for that. But then again, in a lot of ways, I'm not...... |  |
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