7/7: His Latest Period of Absence

'It is a decision for you and you alone,' counsel explained, 'we need an answer.' Unyielding, apparently unmoved, the client continued to stare into the oak beams, it dawning on counsel that no decision would - or perhaps could - be forthcoming.
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6/7: Light at the End of the Estate

Chimneys drawn sharply against the darkening sunset, the sky bade goodnight. Under a flat roof on the edge of town, shift worker and machine bathed in halogen daylight.
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5/7: Hours after Mam's service

Her parents had moved 200 miles north such that an adoption, 'at their age', could be effected. Now, overlooking a blustery North Sea, she clasped the hand tight - the good man, the one who would not get away, the one who had already decided to leave.
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4/7: I think, therefore it is

With the utter conviction of one who had never been inclined to reason, the emerald dress leaned forward with an inelegantly raised hand. 'Thing is,' she whispered, 'I happen to know someone who works in a college just like that, and believe me, many of these kids are lost from day one.'
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3/7: The Giveaway

Barely perceptible, but there, a flicker of something - no doubt about it, the eyes flashed alert. Half-baked hypotheses now queuing to be made sense of, the older man rose, made his excuses, and headed out onto the street.
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2/7: At 54 m.p.h.

Cutting corners was made easy by the low hedges. Dropping left, eyes darting right, a buzzard perched atop a telegraph pole was the last thing he saw.
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1/7: White Behind the Hedge

Looking up from his screen, Frank glanced across to the 9-shot CCTV feed - all quiet. Except, the image from Camera 8 had changed.
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An Exercise in Pairing

General Readerly Scouting - plotter and one-time mentee of Colonel Terjero, led me to a short feature on Dan Rhodes, whereupon I read of his collection, Anthropology - 101 stories, each of 101 words. That, I liked. The playfulness provoked me into scheming a short wordish game. Thus, the precept: two sentences, posted here, each day from tomorrow, for the next week.

The Anatomy of a Week-Long Moment

Just back from a fractured week in Powys and Herefordshire, where Alex and his young cousin playfully broke up the otherwise Proper Grown Up stuff of the Hay Festival, and my breathing in of the lush green hills of Presteigne, in old Radnorshire - home of the very well-groomed (albeit naive) Pristine Christine, the best green teen of Presteigne.

Hay-wise, with my mother in mind (she be a fan), on the first Saturday evening I'd elected to go and listen to Paul O'Grady in conversation with Sandi Toksvig. Sure enough, as he waxed lyrical on the second volume - The Devil Rides Out - of his memoir, his wit, warmth and self-effacement beguiled the thousand-plus audience in the pavilion. On the back of previous Hay experiences (below par interviewers and chairs), Toksvig pitched perfectly.

The following day, I committed only to Javier Cercas' session, intelligently and generously chaired by Jon Gower. I knew little of Cercas, but from listening to his appearance on World Book Club a few months ago, I expected sufficient hooks of interest. The particular quality of his that drew me in, was his appetite for forensically unpacking social and cultural 'moments', or actions - the title of his session, The Anatomy of a Moment, saying as much. The historic thread that ran through much of Cercas' discussion concerned the transition in governance of Spain. At the heart of this was the failed coup d'etat of Colonel Tejero, of 23 February, 1981 - during Spain's shift to a liberal democratic state. And, phew.

Monday began with an air of gaiety - which many of the audience (of about 300) may not have expected from 'The Lost City of Stoke-on-Trent' - primarily, a sales pitch for Matthew Rice' book of the same name - an aesthetically pleasing document of the city's industrial cultural heritage, and traces thereof. With his wife, the potter Emma Bridgewater, opening the discussion with an account of her recalling her first experience of Stoke-on-Trent - a wave of mixed emotions and the thought, 'I didn't know that places like this existed', I had a feeling that I was about to be taste-challenged. From 'those who should know better' (the plummy, the well-bred), I struggle to tolerate that kind of socio-environmental ignorance. Gladly though, bottom line interests aside, both speakers turned it around, and chair Tristram Hunt batted well for the city, too. It was especially pleasing to gauge that the vast majority of the audience were not Stokies on sabbatical (or holiday, or parole), but more broadly interested vultures of socio-industrial culture - the end-of-session questions from the floor were, as my sister would say, top-notch. From that, I moved on to listen to Catherine O'Flynn ('The News Where You Are') and Mark Watson ('Eleven') speak of their most recent novels, both of which centre around characters who are on big personal quests, that see them ask gentle philosophical questions. Again, this was well-chaired, by Stephanie Merritt - no cloyingness, just walking the main protagonists through a well-balanced discussion of their works - as separate entities, albeit with big thematic cross-overs.

Otherwhere, culturally-speaking, there's a feature on Lady Gaga, written by Stephen Fry, and published under the FT banner. It's over a week old now, it's fannish but good, and it's here. And I'm really liking In Treatment - the talking therapy drama, from HBO, with Gabriel Byrne and a strong supporting cast - not least of whom, Hope Davis' Mia is spookily well written and acted.

Otherwise, otherwise.
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nonsensemongering

I'll not bore you with the whys and wherefores of why and wherefore I happened to be reading up on schools in the Bangor (north Wales) area, but let me share my delight in finding some very subtle tweakings to the wikipedia site of one of those schools, here. Note the beginning of paragraph three, and the delicate amendment to the Band Jazz Ysgol Tryfan heading.

I'd heard of wikipedia being open to falsehoods and general nonsensemongering, but I'd never knowingly encountered such suchness before.

Young people - so wonderful, so creative.

Unrelated: It's recently occurred to me that the meaning and function of my blogging has changed enormously, once more. With Alex now being so much more grown up than in the early days of my writing, here, and my confidence in my position in his and Emma's lives growing a lot, this largely safe and supportive space for reflection has become a bit redundant. I'm not saying that I'm done with blogging - I'm not, but things have changed.

Hope this finds you well.

respect

On Boxing Day, I risked getting into Newcastle-upon-Tyne - through hordes of sales shoppers and the great amassing ranks of 53,000 football supporters to entreat mother, father, brother and his new girlfriend, to the spectacle of Newcastle United's 1-3 defeat to Manchester City. I say it was a risk, as mother 'doesn't like crowds', but having thoroughly researched a smart route to the match, I thought this small extension of (unwanted) cultural experience would be good for her. From within, the sight alone of the packed out stadium is something special. And with so many bodies about us, and generous roofs overhanging all four stands, I was confident that it wouldn't couldn't shouldn't feel quite as cold as the minus two degrees celsius that it actually was.

It went well - all of it. They were all glad to have gone along - for mother it was 'good, something a bit different'. For Dad, it was a starkly different experience to the trips to the stadium that we took twenty years ago, back in the days of open terracing, a capacity of 36,000, and the approach to the toilets as likely to have the unsuspecting pisser overhear regular spectators ask, 'How deep is it today?' (There was a time, during some extended building works when the toilets were some combination of not draining and, thus, getting deeper). Returned to the parental home, I sighed a big sigh of relief at my unwell Sister Doubter, who'd questioned the sense in the Newcastle trip - imagining the whole escapade to be as much of a freezing hassle to the parents, as a novel gift.

Shane: It went well! Phew, phew and phew again!

Sister: I don't know why you do it. Y' know, they're just as happy chillin' out - maybe give them a year off next year, eh?

Shane: Mm, maybe. I was feeling a bit of pressure beforehand, myself - didn't know whether using the Metro from Heworth would be such a good idea, but it worked like a dream.

Sister: The Metro on match day - full of chavs, and stinkin' of piss... Happy Christmas!

Shane: No, it wasn't bad - enough space on the way there, and not smelly at all. Bit cosy on the way back, though.

Sister: You got lucky. What was Jayne (brother's new girlfriend) like?

Shane: She was good - bit shy, maybe a bit scared of me, but I like her. I imagine she's heard lots about me.

Sister: Aye, 'Ignore Shane, he's obnoxious with everyone - it's just his way'.

Shane: Hi-lar-i-ous.

Sister: I am funnier than you, though. And better-lookin'.

Shane: Though I am adopted.

Sister: No. I'm the adopted one!

Mother: (from the kitchen) Eh! I can hear that!

Sister: (to me) Me Dad's 60 in a fortnight - any thoughts about a present?

Shane: (I must have twitched an eyebrow or some such)

Sister: Oh, god. What have you done?

Shane: Before I tell, you have to understand where I'm coming from.

Sister: This is gonna be really bad, isn't it.

Shane: I don't think it has to be. What I'm fairly sure that my Dad enjoys is just having us all together - me, mother and brother.

Sister: Funny. What have you done?

Shane: I thought we could all go out for the evening.

Sister: Where?

Shane: Not exactly round here, but not really very far away.

Sister: Where?

Shane: Near Pickering.

Sister: Why?

Shane: There's a... I saw an advert for some... There's a music thing that I thought we could go to.

Sister: Like, what?

Shane: (feeling a few notes of self-doubt about the several hundred pounds that I'd lashed out on tickets) Hmm.

Sister: A gig?

Shane: Mm. In a forest. In June.

Sister: A festival?

Shane: No, a gig - part of a short tour. But it's not really about who it is, it's about the all being together, so it doesn't really matter who it is.

Sister: It's just someone who you like and who we'll all think are shit, isn't it.

Shane: No.

Sister: Who then?

Shane: Erasure.

Sister: (expressions of (in order): 'did I hear that right', 'that could be quite good', 'but hold on - Erasure for a belated birthday trip out for Dad - that's utterly ridiculous')

There followed some uncontrolled laughter from sister, during which moments my straight man act considered the cultural scale of what I'd committed us to.

Shane: What do you think, really?

Sister: (stands from her curled up on the sofa location, holds out a clenched fist - which I automatically bounce my fist down on) A little respect, brother, a little respect.

A Post on the Subject of Travel in Sweden

It had been far too long since such a jaunt.

The Oresundsbron, a bridge that connects the Danish capital, Copenhagen, to the west, with the Swedish city of Malmo to the east.

From the train, edging into Malmo.

As one of Malmo's outdoor markets close up, the culture of van decor presents itself.

Saturday morning strolling leads to the fish market, and eels.

And maybe a hint as to where just a few of the local residents got their spectacular good looks from.

And to the Turning Torso, a residential building - the tallest building in Scandinavia - that overlooks the Oresunds strait.


And back to what you know, with the same eye for the unusual, the unlikely, and the oft-unremarked upon.
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A Post on the Subject of Environmental Psychology, and Formal Education

From my new workspace, I'm overlooking a small gravelly garden, big fir trees, a chaotic bamboo patch, and a dovecote. The birds that are a-twitter at the tops of the firs seem uninterested in the seed-feeders, below - wise, given the number of cats that frequent this area.

There is something really rather pleasing about the swoop and swirl of blue tits.

Just yesterday, I mentioned to a teacher - a bit stressed, she was - that were her school located within an entirely concrete landscape (as so many are), then that pressure that she was feeling would somehow be a fraction more overbearing. Casting a casual glance across the green fields adjacent to the staff room, and to a hill beyond, she murmured.

'Mm. You know you do talk some shit sometimes, but I know what you mean.'

Then I added to her workload.

A Post on the Subject of a Weekend of Lurid Cultural Learnings

Privy to flirting
The Tube - arm-pits and elbows
Dinner by the Thames

What? No parakeets
Tate Modern and swing-dancing
Exposed and hair pinned

A fine shirt, fit for
Gay flings, breakfast, and intros
- a stellar stranger.

A Post on the Subject of Mundane Violence - Spiritual, Physical, Memorial.

I felt – interpreted, sensed, imagined – a disjuncture, as I recently listened to the cremation service of my mother’s aunt. At one point, biblical references were creatively and affirmatively related to the dead woman always having ensured that the (food) cupboards were well-stocked – something about providing for the family, et cetera, et cetera, and so I’m sitting there knowing that this was a woman who was a generally prolific consumer… often received as communicating pride in her personal appearance, in her home, and in much else that no one (except her) really cared about. I found this vulgar, and dubious, to say the least, in what it and she communicated in terms of the Christian values that were said to underpin the service, throughout which, the speaker – a collared churchwoman – spoke without the merest flicker of embarrassment or irony. And so it goes.

Whilst in the north east (above), it was good to reacquaint with the deceased aunt’s husband, daughters, and their families. I also got to hear my mother and sister discussing various local folk’s trials and tribulations. For much of the time, I was left with the sunken feeling (sinking didn’t last very long) that these locals were the cast of soap operas that were routinely so violent, far-fetched and lacking in basic humanity that no outsider would wish to endure their grim narratives. And so I went. Leaving early, my drive back to the Midlands coincided with quiet roads – good thing, autopilot, quick. Whatever it was that I had on the radio – maybe podcasts, possibly Saturday evening Radio Four, I failed to take in – distracted. Sister’s casual mention of the young woman who’d just skipped out of town with her own sister’s husband, that was nothing – that occupied me as far as the end of my mother’s street. The matter of the house with the big shed changing hands, that was with me through to somewhere in North Yorkshire – say, Leeming Bar. It wasn’t so much the house, but more the previous owner. ‘What happened to him?’, I’d asked. ‘He went to prison, didn’t he. D’ y’ not remember?’, said mother. I didn’t remember, I’d never been told. She explained, sort of - ‘Prison - somethin’ t’ do with his step-daughters… y’ know’. His step-daughters, yes, I remembered them - the ones who my own sister used to play with. But for much of the journey, I was thinking about the old friend who I’d run into at the town’s football club earlier that day. As teenagers, we’d played football and knocked about together. At around 16, maybe 17, we drifted apart. My pathway was study and getting away, his was different. He didn’t have the scar when I knew him. Of course, as we caught up, I didn’t mention the line across his face. We talked jobs, where we now lived, and how our footballing allegiances had shifted over the years. His physique told me that it was a long long time since he’d last played football. As sister and I later departed the football club, she explained the old friend’s changed appearance - ‘It was Lenny Fulton that did it’. The name meant nothing to me. ‘He’d be about 40 now, lived down at the bottom of Chapel Street. They got into an argument one night, Lenny just slashed him.’ As sister sought out her car keys, I asked more – why did Old Friend and Lenny Fulton argue, why the violence, and what happened to knife artist Lenny. She explained, ‘It was nowt – drugs probably… He went to prison for it, though he’s dead now - alcohol.’ All of that, and the perfectly horizontal register of it – from just behind the ear, through the ear, across the left cheek, falling just short of Old Friend’s top lip – consumed me across the M62, to the M6.

In around 1990, maybe ’91, I thought it was cute, the way sister – then aged about five or six - would tackle a minced beef pie, as I watched the town’s football team with pals. She would then go and run up and down the undulating hills that flanked the western side of the football ground – all within my sightlines. We’d later jog back home – a distance which must have felt enormous to her short legs. In the same place, now, she explained to me how one of those pals who’d have been with us happened to look like something from a horror film.

For the final, short rainy stretch of the M6, I wondered about Lenny Fulton, about the final words that would have been conjured by and for his kith and kin, and whether his mother's food cupboards would have been well-stocked. My guess was that they weren't.

you

The Boy and I are in WH Smith's, using up an old voucher card (we didn't know how much was on it) on some new kit for his 2010/11 school year. After bagging the various pens, glue-sticks and primary ephemera, the cashier - a pretty, young female - explains that there's just over three pounds left on the voucher card.

Shane: Er... just throw it... no! Are those scratch cards?

Cashier: Mm.

Shane: Pound each?

Cashier: Yeah. D'y' want three?

Shane: Yes please (actually a bit excited at the novelty of such suchness).

Cashier: Shall I give you three different kinds? (she has sensed that we don't normally do this sort of thing)

Shane: Yes, please.

We leave the shop with our scratch cards and retreat to a local cafe, wherein we read about what we must reveal in order to win.

The first two cards pass without success - we did not reveal a hatrick of matching amounts, and we did not reveal a logo of a dog. This is how I imagined it would go.

We move onto card three, and the boy suddenly shrieks.

The Boy: WE'VE GOT A PIG!

And so we had. Ten pounds worth of pig logo. We eat our lunches, drink our drinks and return to WH Smith's. We have filled in my name and address on the back of the card and are feeling upbeat as we wait in a short queue to collect our winnings. I see the potential for boy-amusing playfulness.

Shane: What do I say when I get to the front?

The Boy: Just tell her that we've won ten pounds and give her the card.

Shane: (entirely straight) Oh, ok. (pause) Should I say that we've got a pig?

The Boy: (amused, but trying to suppress the smile) Yeah, say that, say 'We've got a pig'.

Shane: Mm. (pause) Y' sure?

The Boy: (failing to suppress The Grin of Social Mischief) Yeah - 'We've got a pig', and give her the card. That way she'll know it's ten pounds.

Shane: (playing it naive) Mm, ok.

We are at the front of the queue. The cashier looks to me.

Shane: (playing it straight, handing her the card) We have a pig.

The cashier is temporarily raised from barcode bleeping boredom - she, too, fails to suppress the grin. From low down to my immediate right, I hear a boyish snort of laughter.

I continue to play it straight, entirely pleased with myself.

august

In no particular order:-

Moving house
A taste of (life) coaching
Feeling tense
Looking to do something selfish with the week after next
Not reading enough
Removing the cat from where he tears papers
Becoming an angler
Enjoying Sherlock
Feeling underwhelmed at the dawn of the football season
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expectations

During his bath-time, The Boy and I talk. He makes a surprising remark about one of his class-mates, and this leads to me wondering about how developed these children's expectations of one another are, even by the age of nine (a serious interest, though not phrased in these exact terms at that moment).

Shane: Let's play a game where I ask you questions in three parts and you answer them - dead easy.

The Boy: (looks at me, chooses not to bob back under the water, though not yet committing to this nonsense)

Shane: Okay. Think of all the people in your class. I'm going to name three of them - not including you, and you've got to tell me what you think these three might end up doing when they're older - what you think they might end up working as.

The Boy: (wet-haired, possibly interested) Mm.

Shane: Let's start with... Imran.

The Boy: (reaching for shampoo, though interested - thinking hard) Mm. (still thinking - taking this very seriously) The thing is, I don't know Imran very well, so it's hard to say.

Shane: Okay, no problem. Let's try a girl. How about... Danielle.

The Boy: (shampooing) Mm. I don't know about Danielle, but I can find out tomorrow.

Shane: No no, let's not do that. That would sound weird - it might scare her if she thought that your step-dad was wondering what she might end up working as. No, let's think of someone who you do know - last try at this.

The Boy: (mildly amused) Yeah, that would have sounded weird.

Shane: Yeah.

The Boy: (back to being serious, reaching for the rinsing jug) I think I know what Ryan wants to be.

Shane: Alright, tell me what you think Ryan might end up being.

The Boy: (jug of water cascades noisily and splashingly over head) (louder, straight tone) He wants to be a wrestler.

Shane: A wrestler.

The Boy: (hair dripping, eyes still tightly shut) Mm.

Shane: Mm.

I can't be sure that my original ponderance has been effectively handled.

I pass a towel.

dissipating

Recently, The Boy and I were walking one of his pal's home, following their after-school knock-about time (various larks and boyish shriekery, all of which sounded like a good time was being had). The unusual detail to the evening, was that this pal was not one of the usual suspects, so when I was asked whether he'd be allowed to come back with us, I was keen to say 'yes' - The Boy's sociability is one of the things that most pleases and impresses me.

As we walk, I ask The Pal whether he walks to school or is dropped off by car. He explains that for mother's walk-related schedule, it tends to be car, apart from her one day off per week. He then pipes up with, 'But I couldn't walk from my Dad's - that's too far'. He adds that Dad lives in Nearton, only a couple of miles away. And I remember there being mention, only a month or so ago, of this young lad's parents separating (I still don't know what that means... half-way house, permanent split, or otherwise). The Lad - who I'd distantly read as a bright-eyed chap, suddenly looks a bit serious, though not quite mournful. It is a sensitive moment, as I happen to catch the eye of Alex, who seems also to recognise this with the most acute of eyebrow twitches. And Alex speaks.

'There's no way I could walk to school from my Dad's house! (mock laugh) He lives in London!'

'You could' I suggest, 'but you'd have to set off about a week earlier'.

'Yeah', he agrees. Continuing, he turns to his pal, 'Imagine that - having to set off a week before we're meant to be at school - that's just nuts.'

His pal joins in with the mock laughter, and seems to relax - the frown dissipating.

It is gentle, it is normalising, it is a moment in which my love for Alex is immediate and felt.

'Race you', he calls, as he tears off from his pal and I. The Pal runs off, too, albeit bearing a school-bag weight disadvantage.

We reach The Pal's house - another first, for me. Mother answers the door, relaxed in enormous pink slippers and pleased to see her little man. I proffer the ever-pleasing complimentary remarks about her son, and The Boy and I bid these folk, plus younger brother, a good evening. The novelty of the drop-off - we grown-ups remaining largely unfamiliar, means that there is a certain stiffness, but all is fine. There is simplicity and gorgeousness in all of this.

Until.

Turning back to wave at The Pal and his mum, The Boy calls out - all high spirits and with comic intention, 'See you later, suckers!'.

I roll my eyes, sigh, and am relieved to note that this has generated a genuine smile from the mother.

The Boy and I walk home.

air

I had some really interesting conversations, this week. To and from Lake Windermere (a day-long meeting plus sleep-over), my journey's sidekick (who I didn't know very well) proved the ideal companion, and reliable navigator (short-cutting it through back-waterest North Staffordshire should never be taken-for-granted). During our journey north, we established that we both identified with the fundamental qualities of The Brunettery. On our south-bound return, we compared mental notes from the previous 24 hours. They seemed to correspond.

Whilst in Windermere, or nearabouts, I had the pleasure of a longish walk-and-talk with another Don't-Really-Know-This-Person. This was good for some of the finer detail - how and through whom the conversation came about, the speed with which we seemed to establish trust, the fact that we recognised this and spoke it out loud, and the subject matter that - through our handling of it - further conveyed this trust (what poor phrasing... I'm slapping myself, for you). Skimming over talk of overseas property and what it is about time away or time in the sun that enables a person to relax, we got to discuss how we met our respective partners and with that, somewhat more taboo matters. Throughout, questions and answers were reasonably frank. And all the while, we enjoyed the back-drop of low-flying swans, gambolling pied wagtails, driftwood under foot, and the lapping of water. Quite, quite right - so much more preferable than the staid surrounds of the conference room.

Regular doses of that leg-stretching, mind-uplifting outdoor thing are absolutely vital to the task of breaking up the week, so it was good to share in this in a rarefied fashion.

Back in blighty, The Boy and I made use of the heavy downpours we've been having. Fully braced for a drenching, Wednesday evening saw us head out on the bikes to our favourite local woodland. Exiting the wood furthest from our house, we spotted a lapwing as we darted through a field into the Barlaston Park area, then down past the Wedgwood facilities - including cricket club and fishing ponds. Stopping to look at one of the ponds, we both gasped as our immediate sighting was of a kingfisher rising out of the water with its small catch. And then on to the Trent and Mersey canal path, and back home. A bracing circuit, with good rapport and observations all the way.

This weekend, Emma and Alex are in London, and I'm left to face workish loose ends that have been loose too long.

Yet the call of Anglesey, of White Beach (west of Penmon Point), and of the Menai Straits (west of the Britannia Bridge), is reaching me. The beachcaster rod stands in the hallway, suggesting that it's there and ready for me to reel in tea (not that I have any experience of actually catching anything - such a novice as I am). But I can't possibly listen to the rod... a week from now I'll be on the Yorkshire coast, with plenty of chances for staring at the sea.

And so harrumph and harrumph. All cooped up, with no excuses for not doing what I'm meant to.

Living for the weekend? I think not.