Things happen or I see or overhear things as I walk that I want to write about when I get home. But it is the remembering of them all that is the issue. A bit like that memory game where objects are placed on a tray that you have to memorise so that when some are removed you can recall what’s missing. I either chant them as I walk or try to put them all in a title. I dispensed with the latter option this time for it would’ve been too long (though intriguing).
It all began with the inflatable Santa I saw tethered to one of the terraced houses behind South Marine. He was quite large and lit up all smiling and pink-faced. What a joy in the dark! Silly I know, but I could feel my mouth begin to curve upwards in response. I continue with my tree and fairy light research as I trudge, trying to accept that I must walk slower now that my hips and thighs are as stiff as f**k. The string of lights down the whole length of the house on South Road where still flashing gloriously, and there was a tree up inside Yr Hafen, though it wasn’t lit.
Walking towards Great Darkgate Street I walked into a glut of boys just leaving The Angel. They were laughing and nudging and joshing each other. ‘Shall I mention Newcastle?’ said one. The others egged him on. ‘He was so fucking….’, he continued, but I’d walked on. The clock tower has been adorned with lines of lights but they, like the town’s hanging decorations, are not switched on during the night. Shame. Another bevy of boys were inside the Snakeroom. I’m not really sure what it is, a clothes shop or a tattoo parlour? Who knows? The door was wide open and about ten or more of them clustered around a table.
Making my way towards the Pelican Bakery and then home I saw the baker arrive. I often see his little black hatchback driving past the harbour on his way there. I love being part of the regularity, however small, of other’s lives. He’d gone in the shop by the time I walked past, just in time for me to see the girl with the thin ponytail who usually gets there first to open up and start the proving of the bread, kissing him. It was a peck on the cheek, nothing more but it got me thinking. I know that they are a family firm – so, is he her husband, or brother or even her Dad? I may never know.
I dreamt of the little ones. They were in our beds and restless but beautiful and insistent so that we had to vacate them to let them sleep in all their gorgeous sleepiness. I was told in the same dream that I was dying of cancer. The surgeon is in the other room, someone said. I didn’t mind but knew that I wanted to die with my family around me. I better go and tell my husband, I said.
She makes me feel small with her careless rejections.
