68

Retail therapy doesn't do it for me today
I find a flaw in the construction of the oak bureau
And so it is moved, from the must have, to the might have
But only if it's a bargain
And at close on seven hundred it isn't

Unlike last seasons Christmas lights, which it seems
Must have been substantially overstocked
They are discounted, significantly, extremely
Although in February, even though it is my birthday
I have little need for shimmering imitation chandeliers

I did see tables for the stables, but, yes I know another but
But I am quite unable to act unilaterally in this regard
And so I move on to the coffee shop, which nowadays
Unlike the days of my youth, is filled with young mothers
And all manner of pushchairs, and contemporary carrying contraptions
It is, I have to say, almost the equivalent of those food pubs
Who have two for one pensioner days, just to prove
Or so I think, that pensions are keeping pace with inflation

Starbucks was no place for a struggling writer
Not that I am a writer, but if I was it would be a struggle
Not a penny, actually just one penny change from five pounds
For a small Americano and an even smaller bar of granola, yes
I know that granola is a diet sin, and that I have to pay for my sins
But to pay through the nose, that smells more than a bit shifty

I drove back through Eastwood
Not specifically to see the schoolgirls smoking
Or to be surprised, by the young boys in anoraks
Entering the valentines card shop

It was the satellite navigation that redirected me
Apparently there was an accident on the direct route
I saw a white van, stopped by the police for speeding
Or maybe for something more sinister; I carried on by

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67

My hands have a white sheen
As though the mornings frost
Wants
For a prolonged reception

Or, that the China clay
From all those years ago
Wants
To have one more chance
To polish me off

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66

I knew the sky was beautiful, big and blue
I just didn't know how to take the photograph
I knew I fancied to live my whole life with you
I just didn't know you thought I was having a laugh

I might eat potatoes
I won't eat hay
I might drive forever
Till the end of the day

I saw the sadness in her eyes
Her soles hardly left the pavement
She shuffled along in her bland clothing
Could I help her
Would my words help her
Might it help to talk
Does it always help to talk
I listened to Helen Dunmore
Reading her poem Wild Strawberries
In that one instant I thought
Of the almost violent beauty
And the ever vigilant pain
At the very extremities of love

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65

The coffee goes cold, at home I would put it in the microwave for forty seconds, take a sip then let it go cold again; I would repeat this process several times or more, I am a stickler for repetition.

My thoughts turn to those writing colleagues who I met at college; of how they brought something into my life that I had lost whilst getting caught up on the treadmill of work and family life. They may appear to some as fleeting relationships, for what is a year or two, in a life of four score year or more.

I suspect that a sense of community was some thing to do with it, and the relief of no longer being the leader; I wasn't the boss, I wasn't the father, I wasn't the provider, I wasn't even one expected to offer love and understanding; but I think I joined in, I hope I joined in; I think I made friends, I hope I made friends.

To be a part of something brings a richness, carries a vitality into my life. Right now I am taken to that talented young footballer, who asked me how we could beat our opponents from several leagues above us. Richard I said, we will bring passion, and fire, and spirit, they will be overwhelmed by our enthusiasm, our ferociousness; and you Richard, you will show them the sort of flair that most of them can only dream of. We won that cup game, but not the next; this episode in my youth helped form my now long held belief; that each new challenge needs a new leader.

I change my glasses, I am considering going out into the sunlight; I would be happy to sit here all day writing, yet I know full well that there is a slight restlessness within me. I guess everyone suffers a bit from the inability to sit still, unable to be calm, and quiet, to be settled with a settled mind; I am lucky, I suffer from it much less than most.

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64

I will order another coffee, in a few minutes, but for now I am indulging myself with the peaceful quiet. Even within myself I am almost peaceful, almost quiet; yet still alive to beauty, to the beauty of people and their places, I have just watched a video of my grandson Thomas, singing happy birthday to me, from his holiday cottage in Wales.

Earlier I had the luxury of five snoozes, each with its own set of dreams, each with its own trail back to my youth, each with its own knowledge, good knowledge, that another snooze could so easily follow.

I am at Carsington Water in the Peak District, it is very cold, and very beautiful. I walked around, took photographs; through the stones on stone island, took photographs; of the birds, in the water, and in the sky.

A second cup of coffee, but no second cake, those days are over. Sunlight falls onto my table, and reflects brightly from the aluminium chairs and tables outside on the patio. The sun forges a thick, bright and solid stripe, straight down the water towards me; I am reminded of the song Do You Realise by The Flaming Lips.

I thought that today I might write something deep and meaningful, for I am reading Paul Auster's The Invention of Solitude at the moment. It is a memoir; the first part being about his father and their relationship. He claims to have had little rapport with his dad, and I think that mine, and my father's relationship, apart from a few sparkling moments, was much the same. I couldn't tell you much about my father's psyche, or what he thought his raison d'être was.

Suddenly, a slight darkness comes to mind, and I declare that today I will not try to remember anything that I don't want to remember. I will try to stay on the path of the ethereal light.

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