It’s not really the right word – a word and indeed a phrase that I always misunderstood as a child thinking that the son being described as prodigal referred to his return not the wildness of his life when he left. Anyway, he has returned. He left the ‘hell hole’, as he described it, after what? six years or was it more, to work for a famous dairy on an industrial site. He kept coming in to the coffee shop aka HH on his days off, saying that ‘he was getting there’ with his new job. And now he is back. My heart went out to him. He has lost weight and the skin condition that ails him has flared up. His face was positively afire. How do we handle it? we asked each other. In the end I raised it, giving him a way out, a chance to save face. I think it helped. It broke something and he drooped a little less as a consequence. He isn’t an easy man, he can be a little arsy, no brusque – I call him an ‘Eeyore’ like the donkey toy in Winnie-the-pooh. I hope he feels safer now that he is back in the fold.
I walked to the Perygyl from over the Buarth, marvelling at the host of seagulls making in circles in the sky, flashing white from the reflection of the street lights below, magical quite magical. And then, joy of joys there was a fishing boat preparing to set sail. I love that warming thrum of the engine and the stark yellow lights in the still darkness. And I am determined to get strong. These hips are mine and I want to keep them, decrepit or no.
