Some Notes written while sitting in the Goyt Lane Car Park on a Windy Day

The wind rocks the car and sends ripples racing across the surface of the pond. I think about slipping outside but decide to sit there for a while, just for a little bit longer. The grey clouds scud across the leaden sky, whilst thin drizzle pock marks the car windows. Another gust, and a crow hangs in the air teetering on the brink between flying and falling, twisting and turning slightly to make some slow progress. Eventually it gives up and letting go lets the wind blow it away. With the engine running and the heater on, it is warm and cosy in the car. I lift my notebook from my pocket and uncap my pen. The words though stay hidden, sheltering from the storm outside. I don't know how to start, what to put down first. Brown fragile leaves, dead and long since fallen cartwheel in little eddies of activity, blown across the car park. I stare out of the window but do not see anymore. I am thinking of the words that are so hard to write.

Its only a Vole

I had escaped temporarily the mayhem that is a Saturday morning when you are acting as stand in captain of Buxton RUFC Third XV. My mobile had been red hot all morning with last minute cry offs and folks dropping out. As my list of available players dwindled to a bare fifteen and then like the Footsie plunged below it, I sought refuge in a little retail therapy. I was under further stress as Mrs BW was off on an all day jaunt (she calls it a course) which meant that as the Thirds were playing away, albeit close by in the Hope Valley, I would have to leave the Weasel in charge. Before you get on the phone to Social Services she is sixteen and of course highly responsible, but nevertheless I like to make sure that everything is organised before I leave so that there is little for her to actually do. So there I was chilling for a few minutes in Buxton, amongst its shops. It always gives me a lift especially at this time of year as the grey, drizzly, moist,overcast skies contrasts with the autumnal oranges and yellows of the leaves on the trees and the damp limestone buildings. As I illegally parked the car on double yellows to nip in and pick up the rutgby shirts my phone hummed at me from the depths of my trouser pocket. Another player crying off? I sighed deeply and looked at the screen. It was a text from the Weasel. "Dad phone home pleez"
I phoned home.
"Dad. Dad there's a Vole in the kitchen"
"Did you say vole?"
"Yes Dad, a vole! Its horrible."
"Weasel its only a vole for gods sake....."
"But Dad its dead"
"Well at least it can't go anywhere then, can't you pick it up and put it in the bin outside?"
"But dad its got no head, I can't bare to look at it."
I arrived back at BW mansions to find a pyjama clad Weasel hopping from foot to foot in the hall. She pointed to the kitchen, "Its in there"
I sighed again, I knew where the kitchen was and on closer inspection she was right there was a headless vole. I picked it up in newspaper and popped it outside in the recycling. The cats eyed me with a look of smug satisfaction. They had a whole afternoon of the Weasel being in charge to look forward to.

Its the little things

Today was a special day. I reached the last page of my notebook, and oh the joy of a new Moleskin. I fumble as usual peeling off the cellopane wrapper. The stiff black cover firm and reassuring fits snuggly in the palm of my hand, and the pure, pristine, white of the pages aches to be written on. The breathless anticipation as I hover over the first page with my pen, one hand holding the book open, my brow furrowed,thinking what to write? And then taking the plunge, the pen darts down to soil the creamy space with dark dark ink.

Sartorial Inelegance

I am not blessed with sartorial elegance as I think I may have commented before. Indeed I usually look as if I have been dragged through a hedge backwards and a rather prickly and rough sort of hedge at that. Occasionally I make an effort and last week as Mrs BW and I wandered, slightly ill at ease, around Manchester, she decided that it was time that I had a new suit. Having managed to get me into several trendy shops where the prices were inversely proportional to the sizes of the suits that they sold we eventually fell back on M and S. With the minimum of fuss and bother I managed to find one that fitted me and that I liked (actually Mrs BW liked. The first one I showed her she felt made me look too severe) Success. When we got home I decided it was time to clear out my wardrobe and discard the various ill fitting, sightly stained suits that I had. At the bottom of the wardrobe I found a pair of seemingly smart shoes. With a bit of a polish they came up a treat, so today as I had to go down to Derby to a meeting I wore my new suit and my almost new shoes. It had rained all the way down from Buxton and the car park was full of puddles. As I stepped from the car I realised fairly quickly why the shoes had been discarded in the bottom of the wardrobe. They leaked. Never mind, I still had my new suit. "You going to a wedding?" one of my colleagues greeted me. I smiled and tried to join in the amusement. "Must be an important interview" another one offered. Well at least they had noticed. I got home to find that Mrs BW had bought me a track suit to wear to rugby training. I had been complaining about the cold and bless her she had come up with a nice warm snug track suit to keep me warm. I tried it on and as it was close to what we in the North refer to as Tea, decided to keep it on. The Weasel breezed in, took one look at me, sniggered a bit and then said, "Dad you look like a common chav!" I was a bit crest fallen. The Munch launched a sort of defence by saying that it was the wrong sort of tracksuit and anyway I was too fat to be a chav. I suppose he meant well in that strange warped way that teenage boys have. I sneaked upstairs and put on my jeans with the comfortable expanding waist and consigned the tracksuit to my sports bag. Context is everything.