Right. Have you stopped messing about?
Yes. I think so.
Are you going to write again, properly, and just get over yourself?
Well… I’ll try.
Good. Apologise to your friends and readers for messing them about and get on.
Sorry. Sorry everybody. It’s been – difficult. But I think I’m back now.
Only in Nottingham
I have a love/hate relationship with the city where I live. It holds some particularly unpleasant memories for me, but also some reasonable ones. I am always pleased to go somewhere else, but if I’m away too long, I start to get anxious.
“Home” for me is definitely the North, where I’m from, where I lived when I was younger, where my ancestors are from, where my great (x4) grandfather, Michael Pallister was born in 1664 and married Isabel in 1712.
But Nottingham is where I live. It’s a funny place, and the people are… unique. I witnessed some examples personally a few weeks ago as it was Alex’s father’s birthday and he wanted to go out for dinner and then have a “few beers” afterwards.
I didn’t much fancy going out to be honest, I had my usual spring chest infection and was on antibiotics, so I couldn’t really “drink”, but Alex and his boyfriend came over and I really felt I ought to make the effort.
Dinner was pleasant, “Son Of Steak”, does a nice meal at a reasonable price, although I find the name oddly disquieting, as I do the large, blue painted cow outside. I managed to drop a chip, obligingly covered in tomato sauce, all the way down myself and onto my clean linen trousers, where it mashed itself against my thigh so it looked as if I had been stabbed there…
Then we moved on to pubs. Usually I drink vodka, but obviously being on antibiotics it’s not advisable to consume alcohol – you can vomit and I am extremely emetophobic – and arachnophobic – worst nightmare, being trapped in a room full of vomiting spiders… but I thought I would have a white wine spritzer just to be companionable and make things bearable.
The first pub (not my choice) was, bizarrely, playing Motown music and inhabited by blonde women dressed in Seventies style, complete with Farrah Fawcett hairdos. Alex and his boyfriend were soon bopping away on the dancefloor to Stevie Wonder, his father was haranguing me about Brexit (and drinking my spritzer as well as his beer) while I gazed morosely at the crowd of revellers and coughed.
Next pub (also not my choice) was packed full of hipsters. I didn’t realise they were quite so much ‘a thing’ till I had this opportunity to observe them in their natural environment… pushing past the beards, egos and eco-friendly outfits I crawled onto an absurdly high barstool at an uninhabited table and coughed a bit…
Alex’s father harangued me about Brexit… Alex and his boyfriend discussed the merits of the tonic water flavour they had chosen, cucumber versus elderflower (really? Bleuchh -) and I gazed absently out of the window. Several groups of people passed, dressed variously in neon lycra camouflage, tutus and deely boppers, and comic animal costumes…
I watched as one girl dropped something out of her handbag, then deliberately turned it upside down and emptied the entire contents of it out onto the floor. Then she lay down on top of them.
Right outside the window where I was sitting, an elderly man wearing a child’s stetson, took a cucumber from his pocket and shot a lad who was walking past him. The lad obligingly staggered backwards, clutching his chest, before carrying on with his mates.
After a couple more pubs (none of which were my choice) we caught the last bus home (my choice) and I was finally able to retire to my bed, surrounded by cats, crystals and butterflies, reflecting on the oddity of where I live.
Downstairs, I could hear Theresa May’s voice pleading, while Alex’s father ate toast.