Big J K had promised big winds in my weather report note and he was right. I pushed my poor post-massage-bruised body into it, double-coated and double water-proof trouser-ed, gritting my teeth and longing to return home. Hordes of tiny bambi-legged girls in miniscule skirts seemed to pour down Great Darkgate Street exiting from the late-night clubs and bars at the top of town. Boys in chinos, ties and jackets jostled with each other, like cocks mock-fighting, the noise of them swallowed up by the wind swinging shop signs and making the town Christmas tree sway. I wish they’d leave all the lights on but they don’t. The shops are less parsimonious, their windows are a-light with all sorts, some flashing, some still, most rather haphazard, but I like it, need it. The students are equally celebratory with many of their shared houses ablaze with festive illumination. The house next door to the one with a billiard table in the front room had a string of multi-coloured fairy lights stretching down from its top window to the ground. It looked fabulous in the dark. It made me smile. And the ‘billiard house’ had a huge lit Christmas tree in the first floor window, begging the question of how did they get it up there?
I’ve not seen him at his window smoking for over a week now. It is dark and the blinds are down. Nor have I heard the TV on in their living room in the early hours when I leave for my walk. Is he failing? My heart aches for him. He was a force, mental if not physical. The nurses don’t seem to coming any more either.
Save him from any pain, if nothing else.
