Stretching my legs onto the uneven, grassy bank, I inhale the familiar odour of the canal. Pull out my deckchair. Clasp my hands behind the nape of my neck. Close my eyes. Breathe in slowly through the nose. Pause. Exhale out through the mouth. Normally this routine is sheer bliss, one of the simple pleasures in my life. The rhythm is off this morning, though. Unwanted thoughts bang on the door, demanding to be let in. Telling them to fuck off just doesn't do the trick. Not this morning.
Opening the bottle and pouring myself a sherry, I stir the glass and observe the drink before taking a sip. What is the time? Who knows? Who cares? The cool breeze that slips beneath the opening to my dressing gown suggests that it is still early morning. When was the last time I had a drink? Days? Weeks? I try not to count. I don't tend to follow a routine. I don't, for example, open a bottle on a Friday and Saturday night just because it is deemed socially acceptable to do so. Who makes these rules, anyway? Are the rule makers regulated? As far as I'm concerned, they can all go and do one.
I light my cigar and extend my legs. This is another simple pleasure. This one seems so much easier this morning.
A couple with a young boy and a dog walk along the bank and past my boat. This is all unhealthily healthy. Shouldn't the boy be stagnating in his room, trying to beat his top score on Minecraft? They're set for a trek, with rucksacks and bulky walking boots that pick up the mud. The dad's red shorts and yellow raincoat is surely preparing for all eventualities. Fail to prepare, prepare to fail. Fuck off. I take a long swig of sherry as my mind flicks back to the cream raincoat from yesterday afternoon. Was it really just yesterday? It was a long night. Yesterday was the first day of June. Odd. May had been glorious, bar the odd thunderstorm here and there; but then, what is more delightful than the occasional sprinkling in spring? Yesterday was a bright, hot day. The clear clouds gave no indication of rain. Irritated commuters on the tube wiped sweat from their foreheads with their bare arms. The cream raincoat stood out.
Every member of this walking party, not excluding the dog, jerk their heads backwards as they pass me. The boy's mouth drops, able to catch a fly. Dad checks his watch. I hold my hand up and wish them good day. The jolly family jerk their heads back to the front in perfect synchronisation. Mum clips the back of the boy's head (presumably) for gawping. I smile and take another sip of my sherry. There aren't many sips left till I reach the bottom of the glass.
I pull my mobile phone out of the chest (and only) pocket. No messages. No surprise. I tap away with my index finger.
Miss you, Princess x
Although I try to avoid technology wherever I can, and I seriously fear robots will bring down the world, perversely it still fascinates me. I just try not to tell anybody that it does. The idea that I can send a message on my phone that instantly pops up on somebody else’s phone (miles away) is just mind-boggling. And that is just texting! It feels like only seconds before my phone starts vibrating. How are other people so quick? Do they use more than one finger? How do they manage that?
Aww watch you. I miss you too Dad x
I tap away, trying to impress my little girl with my speed. I am caught out by the predictive text, and so I delete what I’ve written and start again. She isn’t going to be impressed at all. I consider writing a long message but think better of it.
Give my love to your mum x
Another vibration.
Will do. But you can speak to her yourself the next time I see you! x
I consider sending her another message, but think better of it; I'm sure Emma doesn't want to spend her Saturday morning texting her dad, does she?
I think back to when I met her mum, the mother of my only child: I was nineteen in December 1989 and I'd been working in the city for just over a year. When I say I had been working in the city, what I really mean is that I had a junior administrator job that was located in the city. Friday evening. Pay day. Naturally I felt like the richest kid on the planet, even though I was paid just above what my employer was allowed to pay me without getting into trouble (remember, there was no minimum wage then). And yet, despite my sudden wealth, I was still the invisible man at the bar as I waved my crisp ten-pound note in the air with one hand and hid my identification in my pocket with the other. I'd been shaving for at least six months but, with no confirmed sightings of hair, it had merely brought a flush to my cheeks. I looked up and caught the eye of a pretty young lady with ash blonde hair next to me.
"Oh hello," she said, smiling.
My shaven cheeks probably turned two shades redder. And then I spoke my first word to my future wife, and mother of my child, Jenny. It was a very simple, unoriginal word. "Hello," I said.
A lady brushed my shoulder, her back appeared in my peripheral vision and then she embraced the girl I'd just said hello to. Damn. So she wasn't speaking to me after all. I waved my ten-pound note even more elaborately as the two women exchanged pleasantries. The intruder left. I hoped that the girl hadn't noticed me speaking to her. And yet I could
