Protests were the flavour of the day in Ipswich yesterday. Albeit, not involving the team. No bedsheets proclaiming 'Evans out' because he's no longer involved. No grumbles about long-ball posturing and trudging aimlessly to mid-table in a bad league. The football was the biggest positive in town. Most of the fans walking into town from the station were looking forwards not back. This, admittedly, is an unusual position for a long-term Town fan to find themselves in.
Tel attended the game. We went and had pre-match drinks and a post-match Chinese. More anon. He's feeling better because he's waiting to exchange contracts. Yes, the bungalow is sold and they're on their way to Halstead. They've found the house they like. It is £600k, true, and it's probably a little bit smaller than their current abode, but the quarter acre of garden swung it. "No morgidge" Tel keeps telling everyone, proudly. He got the asking price on the bungalow in the end. Like a Mountie, he always gets his man.
This was to be one of the first farewell tours of his soon-to-be former life. Like Elton John, he's got a few left. The people who own the house he's buying have asked to remain while they sort their new place out, which means he won't be moving until May. The end of an era here.
That's really the only news I can share. I don't hear from Paula any more. I texted her a few weeks ago and she didn't reply, so I guess she doesn't want her knackered old leather chair back and I can finally remove it to the tip from my garage. It was only cheap. The leather looks and feels like synthetics. I half expected it to grow mould.
I'm seeing someone else as well. It's early stages, so forgive me for not adding details yet, if ever. Feels good though. We have a lot in common, apart from the fact she doesn't like football. She's a long-since divorced Huntingdon resident, works for our office as a Consultant in HR, introduced to me through a mutual friend who works in Finance and who was her former husband. Complicated? Well, yeah, but then isn't everything these days?
So work, and driving, continue, with the added bonus of Huntingdon and a blissful interlude. It's Mothering Sunday and I'm due to see my mater at 1pm for lunch, taking her to a local restaurant with views of the Stour added for free. I forgot to get her a card yesterday so got one from the local Tesco at 8am, along with the breakfast stuff for me and a bunch of flowers (I think they're roses but don't quote me) they'd done up in cellophane and called, optimistically, a bouquet for £12.
Back to the football. We met at 11.30am. Mrs Tel drove us. She's back in black (Clash T-shirt, black Levis, dark hair, black leather jacket, black Vans) but is content. The move said Tel with a smile. She greeted me with a kiss and spent the journey to the railway station being, looking and seeming content with life. It was like some sh*t American advert for Femi products. The wattage of the smile was everlasting.
We arrived in Town and walked via Cardinals as Tel fancied a pint in the Thomas Wolsey. There seemed to be great numbers of police around, which nonplussed us, as Shrewsbury, despite its genteel image as the tea shop capital of Western England (something it no doubt shares with Bath, Wells and Cheltenham, although these places tend to cater for tourists rather than local ladies) isn't widely regarded as a hotbed for football hooliganism compared to, say, Stoke or Cardiff.
As we crossed from the former Golden Lion buffet restaurant (and Tel said, again for the umpteenth time, 'we 'ad a buffey in there once, ah'm sure we did? Sorta chinese wunnit?') and the rain started to spit, we espied a group of placard-wavers, dressed in the sort of clothes nutters wear to be noticed, or to be an 'individual'.
Tel thought they were protesting AGAINST Migrants, and suddenly the Daily Express-on-legs kicked in. 'Fully agree mate' I heard him telling some old bloke with a white goatee. The bloke smiled and asked him to join them. Tel looked sheepish and said "I would, mate, but they're already open". He didn't mean our borders.
It wasn't until we'd actually crossed the road and looked back that the placards made sense. Then Tel looked like he wished napalm fire upon the band of yellers and wavers. This lasted until we got into the pub, and lasted a bit more as he found like-minded souls to moan and be xenophobic with. "Iss not that ah'm racist, like" seemed to become the start of these conversations. Luckily, we only stayed for one.
We moved on to the next pub and passed a load of Anti-Oil protesters, this time post protest, winding down, placing placards on the ground and digging out vegan lunchboxes to munch falafels and quinoa. "Bleedin' 'ell" he muttered as we wandered past. "Ow'd they cook that crap wivvout oil?" he said to me, inspired, as we neared the pub. I didn't think it was the same sort of oil. Oil's bleedin' oil innit?" he said, as if there was no answer. I suddenly looked forward to his move to Halstead.
We breathed out and drank our pints and everything went normal for a while. He even ordered chicken wings. Twenty of them. They were spicy. Then we had a dish of nachos covered in cheese and beefy bits that tasted like burger, and chillis and sour cream and guacamole that looked like something simian had previously chewed and digested. It tasted alright though.
The game, well, we were excellent in the first half and fully deserved the somewhat edgy 1-0 lead. The second half was a bit more relaxed. We kicked towards the SBR first half, which seemed a bit unsettling but ultimately worked in our favour. Plymouth won again though. My impatience to be second takes another few weeks of torment.
The chinese was delicious after as were the post-match pints and shorts. We left at 10.30pm, got a cab home which Tel paid ("dunno when I'll be back 'ere - 'ome ter Wiccum on Good Fridee yer say? Yeah go on then, geddus a ticket") and said our farewells as the taxi driver let me out first. He's happy. I rather think I am as well. Just don't tell Paula, eh? |  |
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