Serotonin Sunshine

Thursday morning delivered sunshine to us in abundance. After a week of almost solid rain, it shone down like an antidepressant stimulating our serotonin and making us smile. A day for wallowing and tanning, the roof of the boat with a good book would have been nice. But it was Thursday and I had places to go, mums to see.

Even the M40 looks good when it is bathed in English sunshine, today it looked good. Through the cut, past High Wycombe, the graffitied wall, (why do I have to read this every day), past the Hoover Building, and up the slipway onto the North Circular (A420). At least if it hadn’t have been for the tail back of traffic it would have been like that; thank Honda for Preludes with air-con! Eventually I did get onto the North Circular and tooled my way around to the East. There are no redeeming features on the A420, even the glimpse you get of the new Wembley Stadium does little for it. That glimpse only serves as a reminder of how much public money is being spent, by so many, for so long, for so little.

Mum was in good spirits when I got to the home, she was sitting in the sun in the courtyard with Kit, a ninety-seven year old resident. One of the staff was asking them questions about their lives so she could write a little story up about each of them and pin it on the wall, for a bit of fun, a bit of interest. And interesting it was. These two women had lived best part of a century, been through wars, gave birth several times, and seen a world change beyond all recognition as ‘progress’ rapidly marched on, taking no prisoners. Kit recalled how the fire carts were once towed by a team of beautiful big black horses; when the motorised version, the fire engine, took over, the horses were sold off to a local delivery company in the area (East London). One day when a driver was making a deliver with his cart they passed by the fire station. Well they didn’t pass by it, unfortunately, as on their approach the horse caught site of the stations open doors and veered off, out of familiarity and possibly home sickness, towards them. Sadly the proud animal was hit by one of the, ever increasing in numbers, delivery lorries coming in the opposite direction and was killed. The writing was on the wall; the death null for horse drawn deliveries, it was soon to be over.

My mum told the woman how she had grown up in Lime House, around the docks when they were thriving. The area used to be China Town in those days and mum told the tale of how, at twelve years of age, she was a bookies runner for an illicit Chinese gaming house run from the back of a pub called ‘The Aporto’ (I think it is still there). Gambling, or more precisely ‘off track betting’, was illegal at that time and children were used to run bets between bookies and punters as they stood far less chance of being stopped by the police. These children were called ‘bookies runners’, and my mum was one of those. I can’t help feeling proud of that for some reason.

It was still blue sky and sun when I left the home. I sat outside in the Prelude trying to make a phone call when another car pulled up alongside me. I thought the guy was trying to get direction so I got out of my car to speak to him. He was Italian and spoke as ‘Manuel’ in ‘Faulty Towers’ would have done had he have hailed from Milan and not Barcelona. He wasn’t after directions; he was trying to sell me a suit and a leather jacket! He was probably a con man but he told me he had been displaying clothes at Liberty’s as part of a fashion show and was on his way back to Milan with the samples. I didn’t see any luggage in his car, which made me wonder, but he was persistent. He showed me his passport as proof of something I wasn’t quite sure of, and showed me a membership card for a casino. He explained how he had experienced a particularly unlucky streak there the night before and was now short of cash and needed to pay for his hire car and get the Airport. The card and the passport looked well worn, and the jackets felt like imitation leather. I managed to shake him off but a lesser mortal would probably have bought one if not two items from him. He was good. He did leave very quickly when I started making a phone call; maybe he thought I was a grass!

I pulled into Oxford earlier than I had expected and had a couple of hours to kill before the doing my poetry gig at the Half Moon: Sparky’s Flying Circus. I went to Café Nero and had a double espresso; Sylvie wasn’t working. On the way back to the Half Moon I stopped off at an Internet Café in the high street, just before the bridge, and checked on my online dating. I am not doing too well at that. I had no replies from any of the women I had taken much trouble to write individual emails to, one email from some one called Elaine who said she had read my profile and I wasn’t the one for her, and one email on my private account from Lisa in Brentford who spoke to me a couple of times last week and said she would like to meet up. I think I am getting weary of it all now, the novelty has worn off, and I think I would rather meet people in the normal way and know if I get on with them from the start.

It was a quite night at the Half Moon. No one I knew turned up, except for Sylvie that is, but she appeared to be with a boyfriend, well some characterless drongo was following her around the pub all night; and before you say it wasn’t me! Chris did a few excellent poems and Sparky too was on good form. Phil and Sue from the band ‘Redox’ performed a couple of numbers with guitar and vocals. I joined them on the jaws harp for one number. Jeremy, as usual, played some sweet acoustic guitar. I wasn’t on particularly good form but gave it a go. The show must go on! I did a new poem that I have only just finished. It is homage to Sparky and called ‘Sparky the Mighty Poet’. He liked it if no one else did. I spoke briefly to Sylvie on the way out and she said she woiuld givve me a call on Tuesday; she wants to see my boat. By one AM we were stuffing pizza down our throats, walking back to the car. Sparky told me some very interesting, but very private things as we sat there finishing of the nine inch American Hots. Unfortunately for you, he swore me to secrecy and I am a man of loyalty and discretion; if I told you I would have to kill you!

When I got home the towpath was dark and dry. The day of sun had done what it does best. Not a light was on, all the boaters were tucked up for the night like hobbits. I was tired; but too tired and couldn’t sleep. The dawn was breaking when I finally drifted off thinking about what lay ahead of me, what tomorrow had in store.