I do get thrown. I know this. I try to manage life in a way that it doesn’t wish to managed. But when it happens I do do my best to go with it, though the discombobulation it causes is mighty. Take yesterday. I was waiting outside the coffee shop with the dancing man who was delighting me with his very special take on things. The day before he’d told me about how he liked to film the SPAR lorry arriving with its delivery and that he’d only had one driving lesson but that he had “got up to third” but as he was “smoking a lot of weed at the time” he decided that driving was a very good idea. So there was I listening to him telling me about his mixed-race cousin Vince’s penchant for Rockabilly when these two men turned up and tried the door. The first one looked a little brutish with a tattoo on his face but the one behind, with his baby-pink face looked less so. They’d got no money they told the small queue gathering outside the door and needed to get to Newquay and asked if it was far to walk. The dancing man said it was doable others were less sure. He offered to buy them a coffee and the dancing man also offered. A kind boy. “Can we join you guys?” asked the tattooed one. My heart sank. I wanted to draw. But I acquiesced. The narrative was a flood – army “I was a Horse Guard”, gunshot wound, invalided out, epilepsy, daughter, American Staffordshire dog (like a huge Pit Bull, apparently). And the brother had his stories too – wanting to be a model (“you know, like the ones on the billboards”) and the challenge of caring for his brother with his fitting. They wanted to get to see the older man’s daughter for her 18th birthday and had spent all their money on a B&B the night before. He gave them the bus fare, naturally. My love. So generous. I couldn’t get them out of my head.
My lovely hairdresser told me about her labrador, Bruce. He’s 14 now and rather infirm. “He sleeps on our bed all day when I’m at work,” she said, “and I’ve got a camera on him so I can check that he’s alright.”
