Welcome back!
Summer 2024 was hectic for everyone else. I spent it in glorious isolation on days when work didn’t encroach; getting myself fit by walking longer and faster. The heat haze from the fields followed me, sweatily, legs coursing through straw-coloured grasses and over creviced soil. Dog-walkers, usually so keen to interrupt and pass by, were put off by the heat after 10am and also, possibly, by the sight of a man showing distasteful sweat patches around his general crotch and arse area, tight in shorts.
I developed a thousand-yard stare, conscious of the curious looks from the hardcore ramblers, dressed for heat like I but also stopping to admire the depth and beauty of the corn-dolly dry Constable countryside. Cows flicked their tails at flies and watched incuriously from fields, chewing mouths and lifting tails for a fresh dump.
I missed a lot of the Olympics. It never recovered from the opening ceremony and, by the time I got home from work and had changed, walked my evening ration through the dusk the clouds of dust, I couldn’t be bothered with the highlights. Sporting endeavours are great, and all that, but I was more enamoured with who Kieran and Mark were buying next. The Szmodics saga kept me far more alert than British golds in rock-climbing and kite surfing. Well done to all for their achievements, but they were the distraction rather than the impetus.
Terry was just as much of a distraction. He’s fine by the way, accompanied me yesterday amidst the sea of blue-shirted support looking for a likely open pub so we could slay hangovers and keep the spirits up for the opening day. “Bleedin’ early kick-offs annoy me” he said, having joined me at Manningtree railway after being dropped by Mrs Tel in their 4x4, she heading off for a swim at The Life House in Thorpe-Le-Soken, which she’s now a full member of. She looked suitably athletic (more in clothing than physically; you don’t see many athletes aged 63, not counting walking footballers and Jimmy Savile) in matching pink Town third shirt (with the Premier League badge, natch) and deep red stretchy tight pedal pushers. “She bought that online ‘erself” said Tel, admiringly. “Din’t fancy ‘ome shirt meself, always fink you look a tool in ‘em when yer old”. He was reassuringly dressed in blue YSL check short-sleeve and tailored dark blue shorts. His arms and legs looked like hairy old leather as they sashayed towards the bar at the Manningtree Station Cafe.
“So she’s away” said Tel as we comfortably ensconced ourselves at a corner table with pints of Guinness, his sausage and egg bap and a cloggy bottle of ketchup on order from the kitchen. This was a conversation he started at my house when Mrs Tel and he collected me for the short drive to the railway. It was about Paula. I’ve not heard from her in ages. I seem to be persona-non-grata in her world. I quantify this by thinking she doesn’t need anything from me. Mostly, I’m right.
Paula has had a rapprochement with her former lover and father of her child. Tel obviously didn’t word it like this and was snortingly cynical in an amusing way (although whether he meant it to be amusing was uncertain; he certainly didn’t tell it with amusement) as he recounted events. It seems that Paula’s lover has changed jobs and is now working as a call-centre manager in Basingstoke. He has split from his wife and they’ve sold their house, so he’s renting a place just outside Basingstoke. He apparently messaged her in June to tell her the news and she drove to see him. The upshot is she’s once again living with him, having changed her job to a new supermarket in Basingstoke as manager. She left with two thousand pounds of Tel’s money, as he gifted her it to smooth the moving-in process when she asked. She said nothing to me. I’d have probably given her two grand as well, had she asked. Tel was ambivalent. "Least she’s ‘appy again” was all he’d say, with a regretful grimace at me. I knew. Trust me.
So Paula has gone. New life. Good for her. I can’t beat myself up over past mistakes or I’d be black’n’blue. You all know that, those of you who have been reading this nonsense ever since I first though it might be a good idea. In truth, my love life is a walking disaster, has been for years and years. My first wife left me (and is now no longer mortal; that’s another story I’ll keep for later if you don’t mind. I only heard she’d died two weeks ago) and the one I thought would be number two became the literal vulgar definition of that. Oh well. It’ll be a lonely old age.
So, to the accompaniment of Tel’s ‘little looks of regret and slightly scarier retribution stored’ we walked from Ipswich rail to the ground. It was nearly 12pm, and the Liverpool fans were congregating up at the away end, cans of Stella being drained in preparation (and then left on walls and in gutters). I’ve looked forward to the return to the Premier League ever since our ignominious exit back in 2002, when my season ticket was cheaper and the football slightly more desperate. The heat was terrific and the noise reminded me of Huddersfield and Exeter, those games when it felt like we were rising back to where we belonged. We’re all older and (some of us) wiser than in 2002. I tried to think back to those days and failed. So long ago. Blotted from memory. I’d be rubbish at recounting my past. Can’t be bothered any more.
And we lost 2-0 having been excellent for the majority and Tel said on the train home through parched lips as he texted Mrs Tel to say he’d want collecting about nine-ish and we headed to the local to enjoy another few pints and the delights of West Ham losing, “well, it woz better than I’d ‘oped it’d be, but they need a bit more, like”. And I couldn’t agree more. It’ll get better as we go, I reckon. And I was happy with that. Had to be. They made us be.
Sitting here alone now, still sweaty from my walk and considering a shower and an afternoon of food shopping and housework. Back to the grind on Monday. Best wishes to little Luke as well for his marriage to the lovely Chloe. He showed me the silver band on the ring finger of his left hand with pride, and all the photos of his wedding in Vegas on his phone at half-time yesterday, At least one of us stands a chance. I’ll be more than happy with that. |  |
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