Frost on the ground, a tracing of rooks on the path from the hedgerow, feet like a scaly serpent, tracks rimed and clawed. A dead coot, eyes plucked and tiny red beak askew, lay like a child's stuffed toy in a freezer.
Harsh realities on a stroll. It was meant to be a stroll. Normal people would've referred to it as an early-morning freshener. It's supposed to be keeping the fatty weight off the bones, a chance for toning and stopping that old familiar bulge in the midriff from expanding until I go bang.
Dogs, unleashed and on leads, rummaged around, breath curling in the morning air, noses bent on pissy smells or whatever it is they sniff to distraction. They ignored the lone walker and I trudged on, breathing slightly heavy as the crests sloped up. My left knee gives the sort of pain you get when you secretly fear dislocation with the next step.
Home with a bag for life. No, I've not married since you were last with. I never remember to take a bag with me on a walk, yet always call into the local Tesco for supplies on the way home. Yesterday morning, I fancied milky porridge oats with a drop of runny honey on top, not too much. And I'd run out of milk. And porridge oats. And honey. And practically everything in between, save three bottles of champagne I can't find the appetite for, and a bit of soapy cheddar and some granary bread. I cleared the fridge last night, straight into food recycling. It broke the heart and resolved the wallet not to go mad on a weekly shop and only buy stuff I'd eat.
Porridge stirred and extra milk floated so it looked as waterlogged as the local fields after the recent rains. Honey drizzled from the squeezy bottle. A cafetière of decent coffee from Guntons in Colchester, the shop that transcends time and feels like the 1950's. It genuinely wouldn't surprise to find Googie Withers behind the deli counter, crisp white coat, offering samples of Mushrooms a la Grecque.
Tel came round just as I was finishing scrubbing the porridge pan. I'll have to get non-stick eventually. Even with Jif and two scourers, it was the sort of job they'd have cruelly given to Sisyphus. He came in the back door and wiped his feet with ostentation, as though we'd a recent outbreak of foot'n'mouth. Birmingham at home, 3pm on a Saturday for the first time in ages. We intended a day of drink and joyous laughter before three. Tel showed me his football bet on his phone. We've not done too badly recently, what with a few winning horses on the side. He spent a tenner on five results, wins for Arsenal, Palace, Sheffield Wednesday, Bristol Rovers and Mansfield. No Town. He hates jinxing it. Given the terrors he went through on Tuesday night when he and not I (working) attended the Rotherham game, he was also a little trepidatious. "Bleedin' free-one up and we let 'em back" he said, still slightly cowed by the experience.
We left at 11am, having had a beer each in my kitchen as an early loosener. We nearly got the 11.13, except he had a lace problem so it was coming in as we entered the station and, not too inclined to move faster than a brisk walk, we watched it pull out and settled for a Guinness apiece in the Station Cafe. We did manage the 11.28. Ipswich wasn't that busy when we pulled in. No Birmingham fans on the train, which was a bit odd as they'd usually be there in droves. The usual London-bound commuters dressed like Scott of the Antarctic despite it being slightly warmer than early morning.
Mrs Tel is due into hospital in Chelmsford in a few weeks, just for tests, overnight stay, that sort of thing. We discussed it; Terry quite concerned despite the studied indifference of his speech. Ladies things. Or at least that was how I interpreted it. He never quite said what, but the intimation was fairly clear. He himself has started working again, just a few hours a week, with Tony on a development his firm are building near Great Leighs. "Great for the racin'" enthused Tel. "Been twice already - 'ad three winners the first time". Then the subject moved away from Mrs Tel and onto horses. The mood lightened as a result.
We briefly touched on Paula and her new baby. She's now separated from the bloke who fathered it. "Gorn back ter 'is missus" said Tel dismissively and with a world of menace in his tone. I gathered he was helping her financially still. "Lent 'er a few quid" he said with a face that told the familiar refrain of "Won't be seeing THAT again". I didn't put my house on the market after all that. Couldn't be bothered. So that potential source of income has dwindled, and with it any interest she may have in me. I haven't seen or heard from her since before Christmas. It's for the best.
We drank steadily, the empty glasses piling on the table until a bored barman came and retrieved them with a sour smile. By two, I felt the familiar swimming feeling when I walked out for a cigarette. Tel started slurring a bit and telling funny tales about Tony and his handling of their new work experience lad, who I felt sympathy for. "Can't do the basics, like" said Tel, expanding on his theme with examples of the lad's stupidity and naivety. I sat and nodded, a world away. My watch suddenly said it was two-forty and we ordered one last short "for the road' and downed it at the bar before making our descent through the town, past a group of lads riding bikes and performing daring wheelies in traffic. It reminded me of me when I was their age. We had BMX's though.
The ground, whirring with seagulls chasing scraps and blokes clad in jeans and anoraks queuing outside SBRL, was riven with an air of hope. I'd missed Leeds v Leicester the previous night as I was out with friends. Apparently Leeds were lucky. Still, a win is a win and we needed the same to keep track.
We left on the full-time whistle, sated by Omari's late goal (again) and a competent, if slightly weary performance. The Birmingham fans we met seemed satisfied that we hadn't run riot and they'd performed fairly well. Opinion was divided on their subs. I've always liked Sirike Dembele from his days when he used to regularly crucify us for Peterborough. They thought he was terrible. Funny how opinions differ?
Tel was happy with the win; happier still that 'The Axe' as he calls Tuanzebe had a really good game for us. The train was a crush and we alighted at a grey Manningtree with the lightness of step that belies a good result. The walk to the pub was lit by re-enactment of the goals and key moments. The pub itself showed the late Arsenal game to a clutch of Arsenal fans in their JVC away tops. The beer was refreshing after the walk.
The curry was great. Tel opted for chicken shashlik with chillis and the tandoori lamb chops, then had a King Prawn Vindaloo with plain rice and a chapati. I had the combination starter of Prawn Puri and lamb sheek with mint chutney and then Chicken Biryani with some of Tel's vindaloo sauce (they always drench their curries in sauce) and a keema naan. My guts bubbled like the porridge pot on the way back home, but it was tasty and a good end to a good day all round.
Mrs Tel arrived at 11.30pm for the long drive back to Braintree. She was clad all in black, bomber jacket, jeans and plain black sweatshirt. We kissed greetings and Tel fell into the passenger seat and lo, they were gone. So back in I went, locking doors behind me and reaching for the brandy bottle and glasses to watch the recorded EFL highlights before bed.
My cherry tree has started budding. Spring's not far away. Will it be the denouement to a great season we all hope will end with Premier ambitions? Dunno. I was mighty glad Southampton lost though.... |  |
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