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.'
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.
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.
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 .
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.
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.
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.
I attend The Boy's sports day. He is to race the three-legged race (they won, with his larger sidekick practically carrying him over the line - messy, but victorious) and the bean-bag race (a creditable finish somewhere in the middle).
At some distance from us, Emma spies the egg-and-spoon racers lining up.
And they are off.
They totter and teeter and wibble and wobble towards us.
Absent-mindedly, I gaze around, as many about me squeal and applaud in support.
Emma: Those eggs don't look even.
Shane: There'll be fallers.
Emma: No. I mean the actual eggs. They're not egg-shaped.
Intrigued, I look, and focus in, and all becomes clear.
Shane: That's because they're not eggs.
The racers get ever nearer.
Emma: They're potatos.
Shane: Potatos, they are. And the girl in yellow seems to be suffering from a particularly knobbly potato.
Emma: Stewards enquiry?
Shane: (momentary ponder) Not at all. This is education. It's all about how they deal with the uneven playing field.
Emma: (sighs) Profound.
Shane: Thanks.
And I am gone - remembering walking up Snowdon with my favourite spoon.
A potato bobbles towards my feet, a child in green feverishly following it, snatching it back and pressing on for the line.
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.
