Weird, and the first of October: and ...15:30 Oct 01 2008
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Weird, and the first of October: and it’s outside it’s raining quite hard as I sit cross-legged at 01:32 a.m., barefoot, in straight leg coal black jeans and white-shirt with button down collars (tucked in, of course) typing about the events of the day.
It’d started on the bus, reading Hunter S. Thompson and ‘Kingdom Of fear’ on the way to sign on, where I learnt a form had been sent out to me, that if it isn’t filled-in and sent back in time, my dole will be delayed.
So nothing new there; all I ‘got out of going on the sick’ over the hand, was an extra seven pound (£7) and nowt but more and more hassle, as the weeks went by.
Well, upstairs, a helped senior member of staff, who sounds good, as she walks in her heels, gave me a copy of said form to fill in, regarding my voluntary work, which has to be declared it seems, even though it’s done in my time, on a Thursday evening.
I had answered three questions, then put down N/A an awful lot, then signed it.
Then I’d missed one bus, as I read the paper and got another home, dropped off some papers, then got the train, to Birkenhead.
Having a quick Jacobite at The Fireman’s Arms I went to the bus stop
I’d got the 411 bus to Liscard, having already decided that whichever bus I took would dictate where I went and whom I called on.
I’d got off at the stop by the garage, a block away from where the Unit 4 cinema had stood . To my left, the day nursery and the flats; and the zebra crossing and he chip shop across the road from it, with the post office, with the Antiques Bureau (or, some suchlike); just on the right in the corner of the left, painted gold and green, with a few columns in front on the shop.
Above the chip shop and the flat above, accessed from the back by a wooden staircase, where the attractive Asian and the Italian foreign students (I imagine) live - is Simon lived, the brother of Vicky, who I had travelled to see.
Now, it had (past tense) had been my intent to call on a young mate, who lives on the left, around from where the Unit Four cinema used to be, where they’re now building flats, (funnily enough, being built in the style of the old cinema).
But, from where I stood, I noticed that the stairs leading up to the flat well above was open and a young man stood, and I strode across the road (not, using the zebra).
“Hello, is he in?” I’d asked, talking of the fellow who lived right at the top, who lived there with two snake; and two dog’s, the cream staff-cross and it’ brown and white with black pup, a boy: I had learnt.
“That’s my Dad,” he’d told me and as we spoke a motorbike went town the road at the side of the chippy, that eventually leads to the path at the bottom; and the lichen covered steps that lead down to the promenade, and the railing’s before The River Mersey.
I’d known who was on that red and white motorbike, who my young friend noticed, as the driver raised his right hand to acknowledge me.
“Who is it that?” He had queried, not unreasonably I feel.
“That’s Marco,” I’d told him, “He’s calling at Simon’s.”
The conversation continued, with my mate Mick, upstairs with a can of Stella Artois and a smoke; talking of TV past; and shows like The Professionals, repeats of which are finding favour today.
I recall telling him the story of how I met Vicky, when she stole my cheese sandwich, on wholemeal bread, in the canteen, on the upper floor of the art college we both went to, Licsard Hall, in Central Park (now burnt down, ‘a convenience,’ some say, a listed building would have to be developed, while the land can be used).
“Who made it?” She had asked.
“My Mother,” I had answered.
“Well, tell her she makes nice sandwiches,” she’d said, with a laugh.
And, so a friendship had been borne.
But, having got distracted, it was more than a little bit dark and somewhat blustery; as I’d walked the drag on which I’d find where Vicky lived, to my right.
(Thankfully, I’d missed the heaviest of the rain.)
And, a few curtains were had drawn shut, in well-lit rooms, their owners saying goodnight to the outside world and the gathering wind, that wasn’t at all cold.
I knocked on the door and smile and the image of Brian May opened the door, peter, Vicky’s Partner.
I like Peter, Vicky’s fella. He’s straightforward and literate and quite astute, is very good company at the pictures, who I thanked again for taking me to see ‘Chumbawamba’ at The Carling Academy. (I still find it funny how churlish Andy, Vicky’s younger brother had sounded, when he’d said. “So Peter found someone to take then”).
I was late getting to Pete ‘n Vicky’s, which unfortunately, they’ve had learn to understand, strangely enough, I’d been late to leave as well.
Thankfully I’d looked up at the clock, as I was rolling my last smoke.
It’d been 10:32 p.m. and time to move. The last bus to Birkenhead was due and I do so dislike the walk from Liscard, Wallasey, to where I live (it’s ten miles). So I stood, counting the mental checklist; black leather cap, shoulder bag and gigs: there that was everything.
As I left Pete ‘n Vicky’s house, dark, in the cul-de-sac, next to a primary school with blue railings – I’d panicked.
I’d thought, for long frightened moments, I’d left my tin behind, the one with the top of the Yin and Yang symbol.
I’d hurriedly searched my pockets, then made a move to turn back towards my theirs.
As I’d looked to the floor, amongst the tarmac pavement, just before my toes; and before a walk, was a pound coin. Then moments later I looked just to my right, a few inches away was a penny.
I had straightened up; breathing one hell of a sigh, then walked on to get my bus.
Later, as I stood outside Hamilton Square station, enjoying my smoke, I couldn’t help but count my change yet again. I had been able to believe. Not only did I have more money than when I’d left Pete ‘n Vicky’s, but I had enough for Thursday and voluntary work.
Although I wanted to write down my musing’s, when I got home; but I got distracted from writing this as soon as I came in. Food had intervened and scran had to be had. There was baked beans and a boiled onion and garlic and pasts twists, with a bolognaise sauce and a smattering of peas, I seem to recall
The lady on the radio (Pauline Daniels) spoke of an event at The Friends Meeting House on 22 School Lane, in Liverpool, regarding matters of the mind, between 1 – 4
Thinking it sounded interesting and wanting to visit the Friends Meeting House for years, I phoned up the show for more details.
The lady I spoke sought further details, the told me, ‘she’ll give them out again, after the next record.
That had been ‘To All The Girls I Love” sung by Paul Brook; and “Love On The Rocks” by Neil Diamond; followed by ‘Unbreak my Heart”, by Toni Braxton.
I ate well, as it played, finishing off the dumpling I decided to eat with the meal last.
I do like dumplings.
Finally sated and having put the leftovers in a tub, for another meal, I finished the dinner, recycled the rubbish, walking the heavy rain, (much like that I’m able to hear as I write this).
Then a little later, I turned around and heard Stevie Wonder singing “He’s Mr. Know It – All” and I’d clicked onto it, with the first bars and I decided to make my Earl Grey, ready for the morning, get my back together; and go to bed.
Getting late by then, I’d decided to go and input as much as I could into Word, while my head was still well wired, from a very pleasant evening.
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