A Winter of Content

“It was stolen in ‘68”

Ratty was at the wheel of the Bel Air, driving it and talking about it.

“It was built in the summer of love, ’67, purchased by the Utah State Troopers, and stolen a year later”

He dropped it down a gear and the V8 roared down the straight through exhaust as we flew off the slip road and started climbing Cumnor Hill. We were on our way to a home game at the Bells. So far we had only lost two games in the whole Aunt Sally season.

“It turned up eight years later in a different state where it had been stored in a warehouse, unused.”

The late evening sun hit the cracked windshield. As soon as we were out of range of the speed cam Ratty floored the beast. Sticking it back into top he carried on.

“The State Troopers Department had already got the insurance for it and had no interest in getting the car back”

“Somehow it ended up in an auction in England in the late seventies. It drifted through a few owners and eventually landed on my drive”

It was noticeable that the nights were getting shorter and the smell of an approaching autumn hung in the evening air. Soon I would need to start firing up the stove on the boat and chopping some logs, preparation for my third winter afloat.

“It’s the original paintwork” he added after a pause “not bad really”

We pulled into the car park of the Bells, lights flashing and siren blaring. We grabbed our sticks out of the boot and Ratty let out a cry of “HAPPY DAYS!” as we stepped into the garden to join the rest of the team.

I had been away for a week with Special Needs. We took the boat up the Lechlade arm of the Thames, all the way to Lechlade itself. It rained a lot but it was a beautiful trip. That stretch of the river, some thirty miles or so, is pretty much pure countryside all the way. There are some four or five river side pubs on route and maybe half a dozen houses, but apart from that there are just trees, fields and river. The canals are charming and have many fine qualities, but the river is impressive. Clear deep flowing water of the Thames, the river that has run through my life. I was born in Barking, not far from where the Thames widens before it gets to Tilbury and eventually spills out into the North Sea. Barking, the Thames Delta, home to the Delta Blues, Barking style! I first started playing harmonica by that river. I’d sit on the wall of one of the 2nd world war pill boxes that line the banks, stare out to a distant Kent, and try to blow like Sonny Boy Williams and Little Walters.

Heading up river towards the source seemed like a journey that I have been destined since birth to make. Even the torrential rain that persisted much of the way didn’t distract from the importance of trip. Special and I got to know each other really well during that week. There is nothing like being stuck on a boat 24/7 for 7 days in inclement weather to help you get to know someone. Amazingly we got on fantastically well and not one bad moment was had. Each evening we would moor up in the middle of nowhere, watch the sunset, eat and play cards or scrabble. I had forgotten how good it is to play a hand of cards with a friend. It is prime relaxing time. The whole trip seemed timeless. When it was over it was like it had been a dream. In a way it was, but a very real dream, one of the best.

I didn’t get selected to play that night. I think it was because I had been on holiday the week before and missed a game, something like that. We won anyway. There was a definite chill in the air when we threw the sticks back into the boot and sirened our way out of the car park. We drove home in silence and I thought about how much my life had changed in the last few months, and how much was changing since I met Special Needs. We got back to Rats in time for last orders but decided to give the Rock a miss and both headed off home.

The boat felt a little empty when I climbed aboard. It also felt, like the night, a little chilly. The shift into autumn, not quite there but visible on a virtual horizon. The time of the season. The lull before the cool. A winter of content lays ahead.

Ice and a Slice

Weeks later…

Like I said at the top of the blog, it’s random!

A lot seems to have gone on but too much to recall. I took a trip to Gloucester with Jamie to visit Ferret and Teen. That turned into a boozy weekend but never the less very enjoyable. I had a near altercation with a primate in the Brunswick; missing the ceiling fan that I was aiming my paper aeroplane at, it nose dived towards the bar and came to rest about three feet from the primate’s lady-boy girlfriend. Apparently this is justifiable reason for full on aggression in Gloucester, well at least the primate thought so. He twitched round on his bar stool, growling and grimacing in his most menacing way. It looked like he had practice this in a mirror, like Robert Dinero's character in Scorsese’s Taxi Driver, but with out the style and ability to back it up. Looking in the mirror is probably where the similarity began and ended. “You talkin’ to me?”

It was too hot to be bothered too much by this Muppet on speed so I just picked up my paper plane and went back to my beer. Fortunately Jamie is a big lad and the rest of my drinking companions numbered several. The primate, when his slow assessment of the situation finally settled in his sloping dome, muttered what may have been “sorry” but it was as incoherent as everything else he had all ready said. I didn’t care, he had already taken on the insignificance of a fly buzzing around; if it stays away it doesn’t bother you, if it gets too close you swat it.

I did quite a few shifts at the Bells and the Half Moon. Silly Billy smashed up the Bells during one of my shifts. He had been drinking all day but I didn’t realise this until he had downed another two pints and started referring to himself in the third person. Always a bad sign, I find. I told him I wouldn’t serve him anymore beer until he had drank some water and eaten some food. I poured him a pint of water and dropped a slice of lemon in it, more out of force of habit than an attempt at sarcastic sophistication. It was the slice of lemon that seemed to do it. His looked changed. “Don’t go all bi-polar on me Billy” I requested hoping it may distract his thoughts, but it was too late. He grabbed the pint of water, emptying its contents over the bar room in the same swipe. Raising it above his head, for a moment his little red eyes met mine. I ducked as the pint jug flew through the air towards my head. It missed me but took out a couple of spirit bottles that were waiting to go on the optics. I stood up again quickly but Silly Billy had gone into full Terminator role, upending drink laden tables as he did his silent victory walk around the bar. “I’ll be back!” he didn’t say it but I could see he was thinking it. ‘I don’t get paid enough for this’ I thought as I swept up the broken glass and mopped up the puddles of beer. None of the customers left though, I think they quite enjoyed it really. It was a sort of Mad Max meets Middle England showdown. Silly Billy is now permanently barred.

I had invited Special to the Bells the night of Billy’s rampage. Fortunately she missed his performance but was soon surrounded by the post-match review. I just wanted to leave at that point. ‘What am I doing here?’ I thought. I did leave at 11:30 and we went back to the boat, listened to some sweet, sculptural music and drank some Tempranillo, floating into the night together.