Post XXXVI

Tales of Un-Interest.

Isn’t it amazing that the things we do for our bodies when we’re not well we never do for our bodies when we are well? Do we care this little for our bodies? Nice hot bath when we’re ill, but the shower will do when we’re well. Soup for breakfast, dinner and supper when we’re under the weather. But when we’re well? Let me find the tin of beans. Nice box of chocolates in front of the TV when the cold hits, our favourite movie on the TV. When the cold alleviates, it’s work from work in front of a dark, bleak, plain wall. This has to change. I propose we’re ill forever. No wait, that’s a terrible idea. I mean, if everyone were off work ill, where would I get my falafels from?

I was in the town again this week. By ‘in the town’, I referring to the age-old British expression meaning ‘I was in the town centre’. We tend to use odd phrases. The other one being ‘I’m going down the town’, which is used to mean the same thing. Even though I’m already in the town, like most people who use that phrase. The American phrase ‘down town’ makes a lot more sense. Why we put a ‘the’ in there is anyone’s guess. It really doesn’t make a whole great deal of sense when you think about it. Ah, the quirky Brits. It must be one of the hundreds of tiny charms my great-grandfather liked so much about this country. Not like that in Italy. We’re just one big quirk.

There I was. On my good old friend the bus. Thankfully, when you’re going into town you only need to say ‘town, please’ to the driver to get your ticket. Even though I’m already in the town, this expression is used as verbal shorthand. Again, meaning ‘the centre’. Oh boy, we’re sounding more nuts by the second, aren’t we?

Rattle, rattle. Noise of the straps hanging from the tapestry of ironwork welded and bolted to either side of the aisle. Red paintwork flaky and exposing the cold, dead blackened rusty steel beneath. It’s not just where people have held the bars, it’s everywhere. Clearly, the decorator they hired lied on his resume. The seats are comfy, though. Bounce, bounce. Our roads are awful. I’m not just – bouncing all over the seats. No legroom, though. I look out of the window at the scenery made dreary by the weather, even the most scenic town looks eerily desolate in the thousand shades of grey that make up the typical British winter sky. But that desolation is alluring. There’s something about the abandonment that draws you to it, an indescribable feeling of affection for the scenery oozing character like the bus oozes vulgarity in its bright shades of orange, blue, red and ooh look – more blue. I don’t know who the designer was who first said bright colours in a dark environment is effective, but clearly they must be related in some fashion to the boy who painted the bars on the bus red.

Once in a while, you get a glimpse of the tens and tens of rows of Victorian terrace housing, stunningly beautiful and often-ornate architecture that physically grabs your imagination and catapults it into the era of prosperity and optimism of the time when they were built. A time when we were the steel kings of Earth. But even when that industry died, even when the hopes of the town were dashed and shattered like the windows of those very houses by yobs after they fell desolate and abandoned, they still shouted ‘look at me’. Look at how gorgeous I am. Some of them feel abandoned and even neglected, but like the scenery dulled solely by the shades of grey, they are so appealing. They are our townhouses, no different to the townhouses in the biggest cities, but just as important. They are where I always wanted to start my life. Heck, if I ever got one of those homes I would be happy in there for a long, long time. I hate change.

I found out this week that mum and dad are planning to move to a bungalow by the sea in some village with a population of probably 50 in the middle of nowhere in a year or two’s time. And I’m not welcome. So I’ve been a bummed out, this week. I’ll don’t know where I’ll be in a few years. I’ll find my way, though. I always do. I guess what I’ve been feeling this week is that feeling of knowing that you’ve overstayed your welcome at home and that your parents want you to move on. This is what happens when you have parents over 60 at my age. Every decision for me is ‘be-all-and-end all’. Every time I go by those town houses, only a few feet from the bus window, I can’t help but wonder if, in reality, they’re so much further away.

I couldn’t think of a specific quote to end this week’s post on, so I decided to end on a headline from the day I was born. Sadly, I only found one headline that didn’t involve death and destruction:

‘Richard Nixon opens library in Yorba Linda, California’.

Peace Out :|:

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