from SHADES OF GREY

18th MAY (1994)

Phil is upstairs, leaning against the bright orange steel safety rail, pondering.

“It’s all shite,” he offers, eventually, “the whole lot of it. Not worth the boxes they’re packed in. 10p a piece. How much do they get for it? A quid if they’re lucky. Does anybody really need another set of dinner plates? It’s not Royal Doulton, it’s cheap crap made by slaves in some Portuguese sweatshop for fuck-all. Whoever agreed to ship this lot in wants a good kicking, they must have a screw loose. Probably flew out to the middle of nowhere to smoke dope. ‘Hey, this is good shit, man.’—’Yes, but what about the dinner service?’—’Oh yeah, don’t worry about it, man, we’ll have the lot, just send it across. Far out, man. This is really, really good shit...’—And the merchandiser floats off into the back of beyond for another month.”

Phil is 30 years old. “Don’t worry,” I tell him, “you’ll wake up and find yourself 26 again, getting ready for another shift at the hospital. It’s a bad dream, that’s all. Just a bad trip.”—“A fucking nightmare. It must be.”

Twenty minutes later the manager glares in our direction. We know when we’re caught but don’t give a damn. Don’t bat an eyelid, carry on talking a while longer, then separate.

A few minutes later I’m downstairs with a box of cups and saucers in my hands. I turn and look along the aisle nearest the windows. Far in the distance see a figure crouching down by the manager’s bicycle, inspecting the back wheel rim. A hand goes for the air valve. Is he doing what I think he’s doing?

Phil stands up again, looks down the aisle and sees me. I burst into a fit of uncontrollable laughter. He walks towards me, smiling.

“You wouldn’t, would you?” I finally gasp. —“Nahh,” he says. “Just kidding.”

SUMMER CONFUSES ME. I never know quite which way to turn. The words Sunshine Filled With Love spin round in every corner of my mind. Every year, without fail. Conflict. An Aquarian, I once read somewhere that we tend to frequent every planet in the solar system except little Mother Earth. Don’t believe a word; if there’s a way out I can’t find it...

Arrive home at approximately 5.15pm out of breath and soaked with sweat, pulse racing. The last of the energy gets the mountain bike over the doorstep, out of harm’s reach. Thieving hands have sharp eyes. Rip off the shirt, turn on the cold water tap, give myself a cool off. Collapse onto the couch. Or sleep on the nearest chair for an hour or two.

Once I’m awake again an intense hunger forces me to the kitchen. A little music and a cup of coffee. The room fills with steam. Carrots and potatoes boiling in a large pan. The lid rattles, the stomach rumbles. Monday to Friday I always eat alone, I know my place. Summer confuses me. The feet dance and the fingers itch, begin tapping the table top. Restless, restless, restless...

No rain falls. The sky isn’t grey. Laughing children a reminder there’s a world beyond the four walls. A reality beyond the one I’m facing. Down by the riverbank, a boy is looking at a large stone, smooth save some carefully chiselled initials and a date. 1952. What would it be like, being alive forty years ago? He hops up onto a rock and peers down into the murky water, still cold-looking despite the July heat. He takes out his small leather purse and lets a new pound coin slip into his palm. He looks closely for the date. 1992. Then he throws it into the blackness.

The water breaks, there is light in his eyes.

He hears a noise. Something rustles the grass behind him. Turning sharply, he sees me squatting by a fallen tree. His face, something about his face. Recognition. We both realise who we are. We both run forward to greet each other. I see that his face is my face. “I have found myself at last!” we cry. A moment later the image fades.

SEASON OF THE GLOVED HAND. The pungent aroma of something like sewerage drifts up to greet you this side of the water. The breeze blows blue and yellow balloons from a little girl’s fingers and the pages of a tattered notebook nearly fly over the handrail of the bridge. Sunday visitors, doing the rounds, whizz by in family cars, quickly fading into the distance. You were never meant to immerse yourself in all the clutter of adult life. All you need is what you are. All you need to learn is how to get inside yourself again; to pluck fragments of experience, like cherries, from your personal tree. All you need is what you are. All you need is reflected in the water.