It’s one of those gentle rain on the conservatory roof days. We need the rain and I am reasonably happy for it to fall especially as I did all the outside jobs earlier. The rain on the roof is one of those highly relaxing sounds. It probably comes with gentle vibrations that make the difference. I’ve been down the cricket nets with Johnnyboy. Rain stopped our play and we retired to the clubhouse to stare out the big plate glass windows at the covers. Rain stop play is also very relaxing. Frustrating for the players I’m sure but hey. I’m in a selfish self-centred mood. Not a bad one and it isn’t affecting anyone else. It’s just that sometimes you have to think of yourself and not worry about the fact that twenty two players, a couple of umpires and the travelling entourage are sat there wondering when the darn rain will stop and they can get on with the game.
I quite like a bit of time on my own, looking out at the rain maybe or just stood at the bar in the Morning Star having a quiet pint. I get quite lonely if I am left on my own for too long such as when Anne takes the kids off to her folks for a few days whilst I am still at work. I can’t cope with it for too long as my tendency is to go out with the boys whilst she is away and that is totally knackering. Two nights out on the trot and now I’m dead.
That makes tonight dangerous as it will be the fourth night out on the trot and we are having a boozy Sunday lunch with friends the following day so it will make it even worse. Ah well. Such is life. Such is the hectic gadabout way we get on with things. Did you like that word gadabout. Not sure when I last heard it. It certainly isn’t in common usage these days. Sounds almost Shakespearean. Probably isn’t. I suspect it is a child of the fifties, introduced to lighten up the post world war two grey austerity of British society. A kind of bright pink word where everything else is in black and white. It survived the swinging sixties but has gradually grown obsolete as its hard core fanbase begins to die off.
Bit morbid all of a sudden and total nonsense of course. I do own a copy of the Shorter Oxford English Dictionary. Two magnificent volumes purchased from some book club or other when I was younger than today. I could look the word up there. However I am not really that bothered. I could also Google it which would be more in keeping with the nature of this work but again it doesn’t matter. I don’t want you to do it either. I want you to forever have the question in your head. “What is the origin of the word gadabout and is it still in common usage?”
I’m teasing you now. Playing with your emotions like a fisherman plays a salmon that dances out of the water and in a fit of furious pique at having been hooked, sets off on a direct line to the far bank. I don’t know how that particular story plays out because we leave the scene before it has finished. We never find out whether the fish was caught and if so how big it was. All we have is the memory of the ripple in the water heading away from us as we turn and walk on down the river bank to the bridge at the far end of the meadow and continue our journey.
It was definitely a meadow not a field. Meadow sounds much better. Field is too abrupt. The meadow may even have the odd cow quietly grazing, looking carelessly at the scene before her (note correct gender choice) before dropping her head to tear out another mouthful of the lush green grass. I can’t quite make out what sort of cow she is.
Definitely not a Friesian. I’d know a Friesian if I saw one. White with black patches, unless it’s black with white patches. It matters not. Also definitely not a doe eyed Jersey. That’s my description not the official name. A Jersey is just a Jersey. Not a pullover. It might have been a Hereford but we have now moved on and are now out of camera shot.
Over the rise we see a totally unexpected sight. It is a huge open cast mine. A real eyesore and not at all in keeping with the pleasant scene that we have just left. Large Toy trucks that from this distance look almost like ants carry vast quantities of ore to huge conveyor belts that disappear over the horizon. Your emotions are now confused, angry even. How can this have been allowed to happen. Well shit happens baby. Shit happens. Like I said I’m playing with you. There’s a lot going on in this scene. A brutal tattooed gangster holds a beautiful woman at knife point. What’s he going to do? A kid runs after his ball into the path of one of the giant trucks. The driver can’t see that low down…
Let’s look away. Don’t want any of this stuff. Give me nice. Give me laughter and the clink of glasses. Give me the sound and smell of a new born baby. Give me good news. I don’t want no crap.
I don’t know how this colloquial stuff crept in here. It’s not like me to say “I don’t want no crap”. I’m not from the Bronx or Yonkers or anywhere like that. I assume they say that sort of thing in the Bronx and Yonkers though you do have to ask yourself where on earth they got the name Yonkers. I’m not asking about Bronx. Bronx sounds plausible to me but Yonkers? Gimme a break will ya?
It’s getting a bit cold here. I might run a hot bath. We are off out tonight, as you know.
Part 24 ere
Part 25 ere