We passed one of the waiters who used to work in the Shilam, an Indian restaurant that we would frequent, virtually every Monday night until we stopped doing so and then it shut. We couldn’t remember his name, though we knew his face. They were mostly from Goa (if that is indeed the Portuguese territory in the Indian Ocean that I am thinking of) and had been given these rather surprising names (for us, perhaps not for them). I remember there was a Shubert, a Wellington and the infamous, and roguish, Ronaldo, and Mohammed was the boss, a terribly sprightly, energetic man, very go-getting for this small town. The one we passed with his eternally smiling face was called by another name, I believe. What lovely men (though more like boys) they were. They brightened up a Monday night and we liked going there, though the food was pretty crap and the building as cold as an iceberg. And many had wives and families at home. So far away.
Oh, how I miss my walking out. We did walk yesterday and the sea was rolling and alive and wonderful and it didn’t rain. But, and there is this but, I miss exploring the courage it took me to go out there in the dark alone. And being on the harbour, standing at the end of the Perygyl staring out to sea. And those thoughts. All that writing in my head as I walked. But I was giving my body pain by doing so. So this temporary cease is no bad thing. And I can sit in here, my bottles on my tummy, Radio 3 on and think about work. Gosh, how blessed I am. I never forget it, you know, never. But I do miss him asking me as he wakes from a dream, ‘What’s it like out?’
Work is finished. For now. Today we go drawing.
