Setting the picture: A leisurely Saturday morning walk, early at 7am as I woke with a bit of a nagging head, secured from dreams about fighting in First World War trenches (this month's bedtime reading is true stories from soldiers who saw action in '14-'18) and seeing the whiz-bangs drop. I hadn't been wounded or killed, which was a relief. With Remembrance Day in two months or so, a decent donation to the Royal British Legion and a paper poppy is a must for all of us. Not yet though.
The walk - the days are starting to revert to autumn and it was a drawn-out dawn that greeted. The early dog-walkers, all North Face cagoules and black leads in hands as their dogs gambolled and sniffed, grunted 'good mornings'. It was what my dad would call 'fresh'. A slight aroma of mildew amongst the undergrowth. A few rabbits, heads bent to the grasses, a buzzard wheeling high as the sky became lighter. My right knee is a bit sore. Slept awkwardly? Oh well.
Back home by 9.30am, holding a bag for life filled with sundries and a new jar of Douwe Egberts. The Deli was open so I bought a sausage roll and a focaccia covered with blobs of pesto and rosemary, and a tub of their garlic filled olives and some mortadella for lunch. Brekkie was a tub of plain yoghurt, a Piel de Sapo melon and some black grapes. It all felt vaguely Islington-under-Blair, except I didn't buy a Guardian. The melon banged against my right leg as I walked home.
No Terries this weekend. They're away with Tony and Sandy. I want to say in Paris but it isn't. He did tell me it was a late booking and explained where they'd gone. It was France. It's not Paris. They left on Wednesday of last week. They're away until tomorrow. He's making an appearance at the Liverpool game on Friday. We're spending all afternoon in the pub and at the Indian. It's been (apprehensively from my part) booked for 1pm.
So, in the absence of Tel, I spent Saturday and yesterday with my Dad instead. Took him for Sunday lunch at Milsoms and then we came back to the local to watch the match (he's a lapsed Man U supporter since the Munich air disaster in 1958 - he idolised Denis Law). But that's to come. Saturday, we went browsing in Long Melford. We actually got parked on the meandering High Street. He wanted a new clock. He's got a houseful already but likes antiques.
We'd both breakfasted by eleven as I collected him. He was dressed for a country day out; moleskin cords, a red-striped Charles Tyrwhitt shirt, a tweed jacket. He eyed me in my black jeans and Superdry blouson jacket and gave an inward sigh. This is his wont. I would've been heartily suspicious of anything else.
The antique shops were a muchness. The same owners, varifocals perched on the end of sharp noses, the smell of beeswax polish and age (hopefully the antiques and not the owners), euphemism in pricing for stuff I'd have happily consigned to skips and council rubbish facilities a long time ago. Some nice bits admittedly. But you paid for those. In fact, you paid for almost everything. Long gone are the days when Lovejoy made a killing. Now everyone is an expert in paying a pittance for something that looks like Faberge but probably isn't. Old ornaments of the type your granny had on her mantelpiece and you inwardly shuddered at are now big business. Well, according to their prices, they are. For someone who could happily waste £60 on an afternoon in a pub, it seemed almost galling that people are happy to pay that much for a chipped, aged piece of porcelain they'll never use. This industry relies on anachronism just as much as retrospection. And people always have deep pockets for it.
We finally left these rarefied premises and the leather-jacketed middle-classes who haunted them, and went for a pint. Clockless. Not even a sniff of a suitable choice. "Still" mused Dad as I set a foaming pint of Adnams Best in front of him and sipped at my Aspalls, "We've looked. Can't do more than that". He eyed a plate of battered fish sidling past in the hands of an aproned waitress and asked if I fancied lunch. It was 2pm. I had the York Ham and pate ploughman's. He had a Dover Sole with crushed new potatoes and green beans. I paid for a glass of Sauvignon for him and a sparkling water for me.
We spent yet more money in Waitrose in Sudbury and then came back. I dropped him at home by seven, promising to be back at eleven on Sunday to pick him up for lunch. My car radio defaults to Talksport for some reason and they were fielding calls from angry Coventry City supporters. All Brummie accents spitting fury at some bloke called Doug for his summer recruitment. One fan pointed out that "We're miles behind Ipswich and finished miles clear of them last season". Ah. Smugness. It didn't last, obviously.
So to Sunday. Early walk, another route which led to the river and away from the well-trodden paths around the woods. Home, breakfast of berries and yoghurt, coffee, The Sunday Times. Did some odd jobs. Showered by 10am. Changed into dark grey chino-style jeans, a plain checked Ben Sherman, a light cotton jacket. Dad's. A surreptitious read and despair at his Mail on Sunday. Onwards to Milsoms. Roast beef for him. I had the lamb. He went for a large glass of Merlot at £19. I had a pint of Nethergate and then sparkling water. He had a pud, a panne cotta with blackberry and cherry compote. I didn't bother. We were out by 3pm, which, given he eats slowly and we were discussing memories of Mum with all the funny ones foremost, was a surprise. I almost didn't fancy the football. His company was enough.
We walked to the pub from my house, a walk of just over two miles along the church lane and past the railway station. The build-up had started as we got in, around 4.15pm. they interviewed Leif and Gary O'Neil. And Carrick. "Is that Darren Bent?" asked Dad as the camera went back to the studio. Yes I said. "He looks like Shaft" said Dad. Then he relapsed into his glass of red that Jamie the landlord recommended. "Not bad" he said, taking a hefty sip.
Well, you know the heartbreak that followed. We looked great first half. Should've been two up at least. Mind you, Manchester United looked dangerous coming forward. The pub groaned in unison, even Dad, when Nunez slipped. There was a nervous half-time feeling that we'd never get that good again. Dad ordered another round and we settled for brandies. Napoleon Cognac as a digestif. It helped settle the second half nerves.
Then, well, calamity after calamity, they had all the luck, it pissed down like the rain on the Old Trafford surface. They didn't deserve five and yet, somehow, it seemed inevitable, and I for one was left with the strange feeling that we'd somehow escaped a bigger defeat. Still, that's the Premier for you. Get all excited at a win and start feeling confident and then, BANG, and it all seems a bit previous. Liverpool will probably feel the same on Friday. They must be due a win as well. Oh well. Terry will spend the week moaning when he returns.
I dropped Dad at seven and he invited me in, and i went. No drinks as driving. Just a continuation of the chat in the restaurant and he showed me the photo's he'd found of him and Mum in the early seventies after they were married. I didn't let on that I'd seen them before, or that he'd told me the stories around his wedding; the cheap champagne which went flat quickly, the vicar getting hiccups during the ceremony. I laughed like it was the first time, and oohed and aahed over the pictures of long-gone relatives and of my mum, dressed in white lace and organza, her hair filleted to finery, her laugh heartfelt. And we both had tears starting as we turned the pages.
I stayed at his place in the end and we shared a bottle of his best brandy. It was one of those evenings. Even his cats sensed it. Now home again on Bank Holiday Monday, write this, quick shower and we're off to a fete together. And a few more drinks. Hope you all have a good day as well.
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