Back on the Farm
This morning the rain was constant. I woke to Gatling gun staccato on the water and ripple interference patterns than even Bridget Riley could not match. It was cold as lawyer’s blood and the sun was a wheezing, invalid grey. We seem to have fast-forwarded through the joys of autumn to the first harsh edges of winter.
With just about enough light to recognise my own face in the mirror, I shave. Pull on a black Italian suit, blue and white-striped shirt burgundy silk tie and the Chelsea boots. I look like a Tory until the rain forces me to take the leather trench coat from its hanger.
At 10am I make my way down a Little Lebanon too early to be fully awake, too wet for the usual shisha huddles. Weaving into what estate agents and others pompously label ‘Connaught Village’, I nod to the policemen armed with Heckler and Koch MP5s like I am an old friend. No one challenges me. It is a trick I learnt from watching Doctor Who and used countless times as a journalist: act as if you own the place and half the time those on the gates do not even bothers to ask for ID.
Within an hour, hands are shaken and papers are signed. I feel the shudder of collapsing parallel dimensions as I meet and move forward from this nexus point. I am back in the game, back on the farm.
Later in the day I close forever the door on my grandparent’s council flat – the place they called home for 40 years of their 78-year long marriage. A frequent and reliable refuge, a place where I could always find love no matter how crushed and crumpled my life was, is now lost to me. Returning from Essex, tears escape on the train as I try and update my internal map.
The sunset I watch from the carriage window is a nursery scheme of pink and blue. The industrial spires and refinery flames across the estuary look like a science fiction backdrop from the 1960s. I find I am my eyes are still damp when the sky has become dark and the shimmering pyramid atop Canary Wharf signals that the end of the line is nigh.
With just about enough light to recognise my own face in the mirror, I shave. Pull on a black Italian suit, blue and white-striped shirt burgundy silk tie and the Chelsea boots. I look like a Tory until the rain forces me to take the leather trench coat from its hanger.
At 10am I make my way down a Little Lebanon too early to be fully awake, too wet for the usual shisha huddles. Weaving into what estate agents and others pompously label ‘Connaught Village’, I nod to the policemen armed with Heckler and Koch MP5s like I am an old friend. No one challenges me. It is a trick I learnt from watching Doctor Who and used countless times as a journalist: act as if you own the place and half the time those on the gates do not even bothers to ask for ID.
Within an hour, hands are shaken and papers are signed. I feel the shudder of collapsing parallel dimensions as I meet and move forward from this nexus point. I am back in the game, back on the farm.
Later in the day I close forever the door on my grandparent’s council flat – the place they called home for 40 years of their 78-year long marriage. A frequent and reliable refuge, a place where I could always find love no matter how crushed and crumpled my life was, is now lost to me. Returning from Essex, tears escape on the train as I try and update my internal map.
The sunset I watch from the carriage window is a nursery scheme of pink and blue. The industrial spires and refinery flames across the estuary look like a science fiction backdrop from the 1960s. I find I am my eyes are still damp when the sky has become dark and the shimmering pyramid atop Canary Wharf signals that the end of the line is nigh.
Labels: Essex, Grandparents, Nexus Points
posted by David at
11:59 PM
9 Comments:
What a turnaround, at least today was warm enough to heat even a lawyers blood or was it,? and nothing could warm estate agents blood.
As for the frequent and reliable refuge, ditto and a hankie to clean the muck off a dirty face. Also I do not think lost to you. So long as you have the memories never lost.
David, your pain and melancholy are evident. But know that the worst will pass and in time the melancholy feeds yet another story to tell to a sympathetic ear someday. I've been going through a similar exercise of closing doors over the past year as my parents lives took a dramatic turn. It's sometimes achingly sad and often I feel conflicted that it's my own hand turning these doorknobs (a long story for another day), but I always console myself that one needs to drive forward, get things done, and remember that time will flow no matter what.
{{{Hugs}}} David. I agree with Cal. You clearly carry that love in your heart always. Sometimes the memories of a reliable refuge can be better than trying to create replica experiences of our most vulnerable moments. Of course, realising that does not instantly cure a heavy heart.
Wish I had a word or two to reach across the ocean...
That's a tough bloody day, David. Closing a haven down is hideous work, and my thoughts are with you. *hugs*.
As for the morning's events, I'll just say welcome back, and gloss over the rich skeins of irony. Once again though, my thoughts are with you.
Thank you all. Hugs are always welcome.
I have never placed much or even any real interest in possessions, particularly houses. Owning a property just made you independent of having your life interfered with by a landlord. Recently our two youngest children were drinking my beer on the deck, as they do frequently; too frequently and too much beer for my highly religious wife. They both said “You are never going to sell the house and move are you?’ in that sad five year old – puppy has just died – voices. Strange how much the security of a ‘home’ means.
Then I read you comment on your grandparents home “A frequent and reliable refuge, a place where I could always find love no matter how crushed and crumpled my life was, is now lost to me.”
Hugh Phillips, Boucherville, Quebec
thanks for the visit
loved looking around here
especially liked this post
(ah - the power of tears)
and was knocked out by your description of trees in the falafel with william blake piece
regards
:-) More hugs..
My aunt is selling my Nan and Gramp's house soon and moving to Devon. I don't think my mum or her other sister know yet.
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