Put the kettle on

Grotesque.

That was the word he just couldn't rinse from his mind walking past the old disused museum.

But he wasn't thinking of the museum at that moment.

That was not the target of his ire.

It had been awkward, forced, strained, all these things.
Any calamitous woeful negative expression he could think of he attached to events of the afternoon.

A slow motion car crash.
A personality orgy.
A tepid, acidic, angst ridden drama.

The streets were quiet, and the lamps along them lit the way home through the dark.
He walked off the main road, past the back of the police station, the air was cool and the breeze light.

A nice night to walk. If only every night were like this. His mind alluded to the winter to come.

He passed a closed school and then a glowing pub, he felt its warmth seep through the windows and out into the dark street.

Saturday lunch time would be a good time to go in. The football would be on then.

Past the terraced houses he walked, their strong stone facades protecting their inhabitants.
The walk had become so familiar to him so soon.
He passed a chip shop opening for the evening. No customers inside yet.

The convenience store came into view, he realised he'd not been in there for years.
Wonder if the same man is running it. He'd no mind to go all the way to the supermarket.

He dived in.
The bright lights hit him.
It all appeared new.
He bought his entertainment for the evening.
And carried the two bottles home.

Another day had slid past.

He turned on the light and closed the door.
He wasn't interested in talking now. He'd heard enough. Now was quiet time.
Time for quietness in his head as much as from his mouth.

People talk so much, but have very little to say sometimes.

He thought about the grotesqueness of his afternoon, the waiting, the wondering, the awkwardness of it all. If they call they call. If they don't they don't.

His ire subsided as he pottered about the house, his general disdain however would take longer to to decline.

He put the kettle on.

Soggy Leaves

He ran across the mosaic.

The patchwork mish-mash of faded browns reds and yellows.
It was like a carpet under him.
Nothing was crisp or crunchy now, this was the back end of autumn.
All was squelchy and sodden, it all reminded him of something.

Yes. These leaves, these flattened autumn leaves were like soggy cornflakes.
Cornflakes soaked in their milk, their crunchiness gone but edible all the same.
He supposed his feet were like spoons.

The ground lay covered where ever he ran.
Along the canal.
Around the school sports field.
On the other side of the train line
And along the path by the pond.

The scenery was still so vivid to him.
The trees were still not bare.
A breeze here and there sprinkled the air with new flakes that wafted down to the floor.

How dull a concrete life would be.
How much he preferred this jotunheim.

The leaves, the air, the leaves. All gave him energy.
Dogs could be dodged, bridges could be ducked, and puddles kicked straight through.

These soggy leaves.
They left him full and satisfied.

These soggy leaves.

Drizzle

Drizzle in the air.

Drivel on the field.

Every few minutes he looked up across the terrace - he fixed is stare - and waited to see if the drops of water were still cascading down.

The game was becoming immaterial now. He just took comfort in being dry, that was all that was left for him in the remaining minutes of the game.

Against the back drop of the stand he could still pick them out, the spitting drops of rain, that were imperceivable against the grey cloudy sky.

4-1. Defeat looming. Disaster.
At least it's not cold. That was to come.

This is a bit of a kick in the teeth.

Celebration erupted in the distance.

At the other end of the field the away fans revelled in victory in the open air, exploding like fireworks as each goal was scored. Meanwhile those around him sank deeper into that reluctant but inevitable conclusion that today was not our day.

Late October and still no home wins.

He felt separated and disconnected in some way. Not just some other teams day today, but he had stood on his own, his own choice, but he had robbed himself of the chance for a communal moan and sweet sharing with those he normally stood with.

Going behind the goal was not his usual way of watching the game, not his usual haunt, but he had wanted another perspective today.

They'll all be there at the next game. They'd seen him a few weeks before, it was no big deal going behind the goal today.

He hand't wanted to be bothered with questions about what he was doing, was he working, where was he working, why wasn't he working. The game was supposed to be an escape from all that.

He didn't have to play up to anyone standing on his own surrounded by strangers.

He'd seen his friends before the game, that was enough company he thought.
To see them after before getting the train would be fine also.

They might not be around after this hammering he thought. They'll soon want to forget this.

The final whistle screeched into the air. Resignation. Defeat.

His minded wondered to thinking of the latest scores, the mood in the bar, and the subsequent train journey home. 

Cwm

He wondered what it had been in the past.

As he sat alone at the table, large cappuccino at hand, he remembered the exterior was old, Victorian, made up of sturdy large stones that had withstood centuries.

Could have been a factory, or warehouse or something.
There was no need for one of them around here any more.

It was a pub now.

Instead of workers coming and going, toiling, it was the unemployed who seemed to frequent the premises. Single mums, retired mums, old men and retired men who sipped their pints alone in the day time hours. Staring off or totally unaware. Men who had seen better days, who had had hard lives and now basked in the calm of the pub.

It's light and airy in here.

It's ceiling was high and the table spread out. A kind of escape for some of these people.

Most of the noise came from the the staff, he was sat relatively close to the bar, and the clatter of knives and forks and plates. It was all intermittent.

The old men could reflect on their past lives, they could lamentingly contemplate past eras they had seen come and go, eras of their lives, of togetherness and comradeship, or innocence and corruption.

All very distant now.

The accent is nice.

He liked hearing the chirpy nature of the staff, the optimism in their voices. The dulcet tones and subtle Welsh inflections. Soft and calming they seemed. There was nothing abrupt or abrasive in the sound. It soothed.

Not such a bad place to retire.

No one bothered the slow munching and sipping.

He wondered about the transition in time.

When did it all change? Was it gradual or sudden?

A comparative youth such as he couldn't understand. He'll have too ask one of the old men, or go to the library. Today a pub, but once a hub of work, of soot covered flat cap wearing miners.

What kind of places are these now?

Idyllic islands, a drift of the tough punishing working world, all but cut off from the urban centres, languishing now in their tree covered hills and rocked streams. A microcosm of a nation perhaps. He wasn't sure, but it seemed a natural conclusion.

A baby's babbling broke his thought.

The Lord is my Light

It seemed like there wasn't time for anything, yet he could do anything with his time.

Letters should be written, books read, emails mailed, forms sent, orders ordered, explanations made, answers given...yet time idled by...drifting like an early morning mist, it's movement imperceptible.

He sat on the train and looked at the English countryside, how soothing it seemed to him. The green trees and hedges, the yellow fields and the blue autumn sky with dashes of white cloud.

This is good therapy.

He felt it invigorate him and he looked forward to reaching his destination. It was nice to travel in the morning with the day ahead of him, ahead of everyone on the train.

When he changed trains for the final short leg of his journey he felt others around brimming with a similar expectation to him.

A lot of tourists here, guess it is a popular place.

Waiting outside the station, there was warm sun, there was a busyness of the main entrance, there was bright yellow stone.

The buses and taxis, the rafts and rows of bicycles chained up and reflecting in the light, the hot dog seller talking to a friend, the leaves of the near by trees - rustling - he tried to sense it all as he waited.

He was glad to wait.


He readied himself for his reunion checking his pocket, tightening his belt, making sure he had the bits and pieces of paper he told himself he needed.

It's been a long time coming, but no doubt we'll both enjoy it, once we relax.

Neither would forget it.

It's good to get away. If there is anywhere that will stimulate the mind it's here.
Plenty to see and think of, and someone to enjoy it with too.

They walked and walked.

He took in all the conversations around him in the street. People are funny, they talk so loudly. He enjoyed hearing the English. Maybe Ted 1 and 2 are worth watching. They're not for kids? Oh!

On the bus two women gabbled as he sat looking out of the window. They were friends, but one talked about deleting another from the internet.

Funny idea of friendship, now we just delete them when we feel like it.

Like the imperceptible mist, 3 days slipped by.
Sites, shops, sun, cafes,
Palaces, parks, supermarkets.
A whirl and a blur.
Smiling.
Hand holding.
Holding.

He found himself back again where he started, dealing again with the same issues. Where did the time go? A peculiar expression when you think about it. Not like it can be brought back from where it went.

Now he had to get back to his books.

Dominus illuminatio mea