Bedz on the Rye

‘It’s no time to be making plans for a holiday Ron. You should’ve done that years ago.’ Says Antoine, who is perched on a solid pine bedframe. Ron continues to stare out of the window. ‘Anyways, not at your age, there’s this virus making its rounds like the grim reaper.’

‘Don’t be so gloomy Antoine, let an old man dream.’ Ron turns around with both hands in his pockets sticking out like paws. He has small blue peepers studded in his round, pink head and wears a beige coloured sweatshirt over cream trousers. Ron is slightly blurred at the edges, but when he puts on his reading glasses to go over the accounts, he gains a certain edge like a betting clerk.

Ron runs a shop called Bedz on the Rye and he has done so for the last twenty-seven years. He bought it off his uncle when he became ill, likely asbestos - things were different then. The market was looking up, there were loads of new families moving into the area with money to splash, everyone needed a bed. Waterbeds came into fashion for a little while, nearly did his back in carrying one into the store with Larry. After that they always drained them before moving. Nowadays everyone’s about memory-foam and low bed frames, although tighter with their budget. He doesn’t make enough business these days. Ron has to keep the shop open all hours in case somebody comes in to buy; ‘Can’t miss an opportunity and can’t compete with them online retailers.’ His beds are middle-of-the-range, affordable, no frills and he’s got Larry with the van if you want it delivered to your door.

The only regular customer he gets is Antoine who works for an old people’s home. Elderly care worker is what you call them these days, and Antoine looked after his old mum before she went, so he’s a good lad, still a bit young but who isn’t when you’re over sixty. Still no plans to retire – ‘I couldn’t afford it!’ but still with an itch to get out there, to see the world. Every day he stands at the shop window looking out, watching the street, waiting for someone to come in. Ron wonders how much longer this sort of thing can go on. Every time he takes stock of his beds and mattresses, he is reminded that he hasn’t sold enough for this quarter. At least he owns the leasehold he muses, though that must be running low too, can’t quite remember or find the energy to locate the deeds.

He never married - didn’t want to - not really. There was this one lady friend he made called Veronica. Oh, she was lovely. She had this shop a few stores down selling vintage clothing and furs, she was actually older than Ron by several years, but he daren’t ask by how much, a woman must be allowed to keep her secrets. He’d buy her coffees and croissants and take them a few doors down in the mornings, chatting while she got the place ready. Veronica had these trunk suitcases that looked like they belonged in the back of a Fiat 500 and picnic hampers, which she would open up all over the shop and delicately toss mountains of shawls and silk scarves into them, pulling out little wisps, enticing customers to reach out and buy one. Those mornings were bliss. They would talk about politics and hit records, Veronica spoke about wanting to move away and start all over again; Ron felt trepidation and excitement at the possibilities that could materialise out of thin air. It was the last time he felt young.

Drizzle started falling and it got chilly standing by the door, Ron trod lightly into his back-office, switching on the overhead heater that made a faint hum. In moments like these he wished a customer would come in to make him not dwell. She did as she set out to do. It was the summer of 2005 when Veronica closed her shop forever, selling the business to a yuppie couple who transformed it into a yoga studio. She came by to sit on one of the many bright beds for sale that day and dazzled Ron as she spoke with certainty about where she was off to and what she was going to do.

‘I’ll swim in the most beautiful crystal-clear lake in the summers and be able to buy and sell as many silks as I like.’

‘You can speak Italian can you?’

‘Capisco benissimo!’ Ron raised his eyebrows impressed and besotted. ‘You must come and visit me. Will you? Yes promise.’

What would happen if he turned over the “Open” sign to say “Closed” for a week? The shop door swings open and Antoine steps in wearing a drenched raincoat with the hood pulled over his hair, holding a blue plastic bag.

‘Do you mind it’s too rainy to walk back just yet.’

‘You know something Antoine? I’m going on holiday.’

‘Oh yes, when?’

‘Right now.’ Ron looked pleased with himself and had some colour in his cheeks for once.

‘Where to?’ Rummaging in his shopping bag.

Already Ron had put on his jacket and folded his reading glasses into their case for travel, ‘To Lake Como in Italy.’

Antoine stops and looks at him like he’s loopy, ‘You can’t you know it’s been quarantined.’

‘I don’t care about that I’m going.’ And with that, Ron gave Antoine his umbrella and switched off all the electrics in his shop and swung the sign round to say “Closed”.

A way of calling Love

So, I called Obaachan because every weekend I call my Japanese grandmother. Apart from the past three weekends, because one weekend I had a sore throat and, on the others, I’d been doing flat viewings and/or parties. I called her on Sunday and caught up with her news. She’s been trying to snack less and thinks it’s working because her face looks thinner. I think she just cut her hair, framing her face differently, but I didn’t say that – got to be encouraging. Mid-way through our conversation, she told me that my aunt’s husband, Toshiya, had gone back to his family home to visit his old mother.

‘Oh, that’s good’, I said. Toshiya had been saying recently that he should visit his old mum. His father passed away a year ago.

My aunt Mariko said, ‘You should go.’ Of course, he should: what a good idea. So, Toshiya got the car ready for the weekend and headed up North. His hometown was a five-hour drive away towards the Snow Country; icy temperatures mean you have to put snow-chains around the tyres. My aunt refuses to drive up there anymore, because one time she skidded and almost hit a telegraph pole.

His family were all there to greet him. He went inside and sat around the kotatsu, a warmed-up low table, with his brothers and their wives and their children, and the sickly looking cat and his nephews. Food was dished-up and everybody ate and drank and did what families do. In the adjacent room (traditional Japanese rooms are tatami; divided by partitions you choose to leave open or slide shut, depending on what you’re using the room for) was his mum sleeping in a futon. When Toshiya arrived, she was tucked up in her futon next door with the door wide open, and she greeted him from there.

 ‘Mother. Are you sleeping already?’ She didn’t stir but told him she was glad he had come and that she was tired, and only wanted to sleep. He didn’t want to disturb her so, kept on with the rest of the family. He presented the standard gifts you bring home from the city, like nicely packaged cookies with almonds and vanilla essence; and them being country folk, brought out the homebrew saké and freshly grown delicacies, you could never purchase in a store in Tokyo.

The next day Toshiya had to make his way home, as it was only a weekend trip and the drive was a long one. His mother was again laid out in her futon, and she didn’t get up all day. Toshiya went into her room and kneeled beside her soft cotton mattress. It was layered over with heavy blankets and shawls, like a cocoon. His mother’s wrinkled face peeked out from the pillow, and when she opened her eyes, she smiled a warm, toothy smile. He asked her if she was feeling well.

‘You haven’t got up the whole time I’ve been here Ma. Is anything wrong?’

‘I’m fit and fine, I tell you. Only I’m tired these days.’ Toshiya didn’t speak and looked patiently down at his mother, who blinked twice. ‘I’m so pleased you came. Travelling all this way. You must take some apples.’ He turned the engine on to heat up the car before he left. Family who were still there on the Sunday came out to see him, bowing until they were out of sight in his rear car view mirror. Toshiya made his way, across small country roads that cut through long stretches of paddy fields.

I ask, ‘Is Toshiya’s mum OK? Is she really ill?’ Obaachan continues. When Toshiya got home, Mariko asked him how his mother had been, and he told her that she hadn’t got out of bed the whole time he was there, and so, Mariko had asked the same question as me.

She was clearly worried, ‘What if there’s something wrong with her heart?’

Toshiya didn’t know. In five days time he got a phone call. It rang after work hours, but not too late, a considerate time to be receiving a phone call out of the blue. On the other end of the line was his old mum.

She said, ‘I want to apologise. You made your way up here and I was asleep the whole time. The truth is, when I heard you were coming, I went out early to the fields to pick the best vegetables and pulled my back. Then you arrived.’ Toshiya, held the phone receiver tightly against his ear and bowed many incremental nods, listening carefully.

‘Wait! Why didn’t she tell Toshiya that when he was there beside her?’ My question hangs in the long-distance fuzz between me and Obaachan.

‘Mmh. I only heard this from Mariko. Probably, she didn’t want him to feel guilty.’

‘But… he went all the way up there. Five hours there and back in the snow!’

‘Mmh.’ Obaachan agrees with me slightly. To her this seems plausible, simple, yet to me it’s inexplicable. I think of all that time and opportunity wasted, when they could have had a proper conversation. And now we’ll never know what they didn’t say to each other, truly.

Let's move to Cumbria! (An ode to Annina)

‘The sea has to remain a mystery.’ She said then evaporated.

I’m flummoxed. They’re married. You tell me now as if I wouldn’t have wanted to marry her and make her a happy wife.

We could have had a country life….

With a cat who catches mice and two lolloping hounds.

Taken long walks against strong winds and seek’n shelter in the carved out hollows of sunken ships, on low-lying beach.

So that we might hide from the world and then burst out in Spring!

Pass’d Winter nights swooning over the fading moon through our slice of window pane, wrapped-up in thick blankets the weight of hay stacks.

Tea at different times of day and different kinds too.

Loose-leafed, ginseng,

nettle, fennel,

Tetley’s. You'd sing.

Think of it - you in the drawing room reading. Me in the living room pleading to be paid attention to and writing.

No babies.

We could have had it all. Moved away from here. And I could've carried you over the threshold with some help from a stranger. It would've been poverty-stricken bliss

(I'd hide the bills.)

But alas, you found her and I found him and we’ll be better off with them.

Bench of Bread

I’ve been lacking of late, not paying attention, not really observing or taking anything in. It may be an obstruction caused by love and happiness, those nuisance anti-muses. I am on the top deck of a double-decker bus and a girl with her left arm in a sling has just managed to stand up to get off, but the vehicle impromptuly stopped and with no free hand to steady herself she boob-planted the man sat beside her. Full breast. He seemed pleased but tried desperately to hide it and she seemed amused if slightly pissed off.

The moon has been out a lot lately, I notice: A sliver here, a round face there. There have been minor maintenance problems which must rack up to some amount. The front door Chubb key became a ‘deadlock’ because the tooth of an old key broke away inside it. Deadlock? I had never thought of it as an object but it must mean a key that no longer turns or fits. A redundant key. How many memories are redundant keys I wonder to myself as a I stare at a bench full of bread. They look like fresh loaves to me. Loaves remind me of something and it has to be biblical doesn’t it, or was it a poem I received about bread being poetry, or is it about poverty? And a funny thought every time one sits on a bench you’re fulfilling its purpose, benches like being sat on. If you have a bench in a part of town nobody uses then it’s a shit bench, but if it’s used a lot then it’s being a good bench. But what if some baker uses this bench to lay out his loaves at night so that passers by can look on bewildered until someone hungry comes along and it becomes normal because it seems necessary to them and then also for us. Like art. You don’t need it until someone who wants it sees it and consumes thus carving the way for the rest of us, sheep. Baa.

Bus terminates here. The amount of drivers that have to change over at Camberwell, really, South London is like falling off the map for some. Getting on and off buses getting slips of paper and touching cards on readers. Bleep bleep. I never feel like I turn a key in my life unless it’s the actual key in the lock that broke. I mean I don’t do anything hands on. I now see why the Makers’ Revolution that Portlandia and The Observer covered happened. Everything is touch sensitive when was the last time I worked anything hard? Not even hard, light? God and why do you think there’s bread on this bench? The only answer is someone put it there, is it a social movement and what makes me different from that woman with the shopping bag perusing it whilst waiting for the bus, checking on their condition. And now stuffing one, two, maybe four loaves into her bag. Bread for free. And why am I afraid and uncertain of what? ‘Stress comes from giving a fuck’ I told Chloe. A tax rise of 3% on rolling tobacco. Numbers of nightclub goers continue to fall preferring eating establishments that turn in to clubs later on i.e. The rise of the restaurant-clubs. Yuck. We touch everything and nothing happens and this ineffectuality about my being makes me rise and fall with hopeful longing and hopeless settling. And that bench of bread remains but now with three loaves, still not none. 

Hero

A note slipped in her diary whilst she was away in the toilet. 

That was a bold move, Andy thought. That was a bold stupid move. Andy was sat a few tables away from her and he had promised to watch her bags and laptop whilst she ‘nipped to the loo’ as she put it. With no idea of what her name was Andy had formed a relationship of trust with a stranger, something he doesn’t very often have with anybody. His last girlfriend Clarissa was either a control freak or a nervous wreck, flitting between the two so that Andy always felt slightly responsible for their continued state of tension. She’s dating that bikram yoga instructor now so, each to their own he consoled himself.

Whilst peering over the edge of his book at her belongings intently (like a hero) it occurred to Andy that, well, she had been quite attractive really. Kind eyes, bright hair, soft features; he continued to muse contentedly that he was now her watchman, her uncredited protector. 

But then the waiter came and dread filled his feeble fleeting heart.

Alexander the waiter believed in himself and called everyone “darling” in a lovingly sexist way. If a pretty lady entered his establishment and didn’t have the exact change for a mocha he’d do what any self-appreciating male with sexual prowess would do, he’d give her a smile and a wink and let her have the mocha for less. Sure less, not free - he has principles come’ on ladies. Twenty minutes ago, Alexander, was serving the lady with the currently unattended bags and had spotted her feminine waistline and shiny eyes. Now’s his chance. Striding over with purpose to her empty chair Alexander wipes it down with a cloth and slips his phone number in to her closed diary that she left on the table. 

Wide-eyed but with no other external signs of shock Andy awaits with foreboding. A dark cloud emitting drizzle has formed around his head. Clammy.

What if the nice woman who had asked me to watch her bags while she went to the bathroom thinks it’s ME?! And I have somehow broken her trust. I’ll never be asked to be a hero again. I’ll never be considered by her to be an honest trustworthy individual! And when she finds that number she’ll be filled with conceit and probably tut inside her head that all men are pricks and after one thing only. Well I’m not after one thing only! He thought decidedly (although he did quite fancy her but that was besides the point at this minute.)

She came back and Andy had missed his chance to do anything about the note slipped inside her personal private diary, he was livid with himself, all he had to do was take the note out and eat it or something why hadn't he acted fast enough?

‘Thanks’, she said and smiled back at him. 

The waiter behind the counter gave her a wink across the cafe. Andy grabbed his belongings hurriedly scraping them in to his bag before disastrously upturning a saucer filled with the residue of his filter coffee on to his crotch making him exclaim ‘shitheap!’ downwardly into his soul. The woman who was sat cross-legged at her laptop smiled over the edge of her screen in his direction with forgiveness and understanding. ‘Sorry’ muttered Andy and hurriedly dashed out forgetting his book behind, and so clambered back in past the other diners and metallic tables that scraped over the linoleum floor apologising again and again to recover his book and then finally leaving to get the hell out of there. 

Cath turned to the correct page of her diary to check dates and found a slip of paper with a telephone number written across it and a small black scribbled heart in the corner. Written on receipt-paper she thought turning it over in her fingers. The heart looks like something drawn by a pre-schooler. Completely uninterested she ordered another black coffee and went back to checking dates in her diary.

Two Poems

Just Them Two

I turned to you and I thought you were

No.

I woke up under white and

Birdsong, I was already

Not there.

Once the chessboard has been cleaned

To the final few pieces

Linoleum bath mats

Junkyard thermostats

Last two pieces standing:

King and Queen in the green

There's just them two.

Thwack. Clean the board

check check check

Acute pain, dishevelled dishes

Lukewarm bathwater

No way to swim back

Take your stuff, leave it go!

Clear blue boredom sets in

Love and Aeroplanes

I have a friend 

Who boarded a plane

To surprise the one

She loves.

He did not know

About her return,

Nor even of that love.

I know a girl

Who waited and waited

Hopeful of a plane.

When he was thrust back

In to her palms

She gasped for joy

Which she immediately stole

Away, for a rainy day.

I know two fools

Who boarded a plane

To go re-strike that match!

Of love in New York,

It did not work

She'd been a doll

A mannequin of false hope.

I know a man who dreamt and

Dreamt, of that final plane:

For dreams to come true.

Eventually he waited

On and on

And neither she nor the plane

Came true.

Blancmange (some sweet story)

Claudie went to check herself in the mirror, again, making sure to look at her flat stomach and lack of creases in her body hugging top. A nice skirt soft to the touch, her arms were smooth and the bust visible. She couldn’t look up at her face not really sure why.

Amnon waited in his car and on the bus journey and then in the train, on any mode of transport, really. Whilst on the move he never had control of the thoughts that flowed in, like the scenery flitting past the window. He waited for a hint that he should chase after her, but it never came.

Playing hard to get only lasts a few days, as the weeks roll on turning in to the changing of seasons, summer had already appeared and they were going to meet again. Had it been three months? Amnon didn’t really want to think about it and was already walking to the date-spot, and he thought he had to really stop thinking of it as a date-spot.

It was just a really prominent spot. She had chosen it of course in the middle of the city equidistant from both their work places, a gigantic symbol - not of romance but of stately grandeur. A blancmange no less, St. Paul’s Cathedral. She was all about the grand gestures, that was how she left it.

It had been their first and last holiday together to mark a year’s anniversary, Roma. When the tourists had dissipated and dusk was at it’s height, and one or two bats swooshed over their heads she had turned to him and blankly state it’s finished. Over. In front of the Fountains of Triovoli. Amnon was taken aback because seriously there had been no change up to or during that point, but she said it so sweetly and left.

Each time Claudie went to leave her flat, one plimsole out the door she would recoil back in and have another last look at her self in the mirror. Was it vanity that kept her locked to mirrors or the reassurance that she needed - that she still existed and hadn’t vanished mid-sentence in the time she wasn’t looking at herself in one, she really didn’t know. 

Addicted to the Gaze as one friend jibed her. But Claudie’s world was crystalline. No fault lines, everything pristine. Nothing that occurred wasn’t pre-planned or pre-envisaged. In the big black holdall made of Italian leather that Amnon had presented to her in Rome were scripts, reams of paper jotted down with the words that real people said and that was how she lived, not spontaneously only in scenes.

Amnon spotted a small swaying figure meandering up to the St. Paul’s steps. It was her - he knew from her walk and her neat little bob that swayed only after her whole body swayed. He felt a bit sea-sick now, actually. So he started to hum a song. Most aptly his hardwired nervous brain had injected the Kinks Waterloo Sunset in to the scene, there really was a sunset and they were close enough to the river, so why not?

Claudie waves, she waves again and smiles. Actually she’s pleased to see him, now that she thinks about it she had missed him and his Rat Pack sensibilities. As she approaches and peels off her sunglasses she realises he’s a lot more real than she remembered him to be. He looks nervous and kind like a child and immediately Claudie is in love. That’s her fickleness for you.

Take me back? She suggests. He says yes. And then they try to walk and talk but can’t do both at the same time without feeling silly, so hold hands instead.

Walk On Amy

‘I mean, whatever way you look at this you’re a prick.’

Amy begrudgingly walks over the bridge towards the ornate gates, on through the cemetery until she’s soon at the far north end leaving under the cherubim splodged arch, out on to a busy road whilst turning left towards a junction, she tugs her hair. ‘You’re such a prick’, she says breathless like she doesn’t really mean it. Above is the clearest blue sky she has seen in years, or taken note of - you see, only on an unplanned day like this would Amy have time to notice such things; usually she’s on her phone putting filter upon filter over her Instagram shots or perusing the maps to get somewhere quicker. Today she had no where to be. She wished at the start of the realisation process that someone would call, anybody with a need for her to be somewhere, anywhere. Alas, nobody called and her phone was now dead without battery. Her little flat soles ached from the standing, then the pacing, and the prolonged walking that followed. She thought, ‘I might as well enjoy the day if I have it to myself’ and set off in any old direction reaching a park, in the end. Now mid park she sees a bench and decides to have a rest.

‘When will you be back?’

‘I’ll be back on Saturday by 14:00’

‘Yay’

‘Looking forward to seeing your pretty face’

‘[insert blush emoticon]’

There are some ducks lying on the grass, a whole group of them with one or two waggling their tails. The pond water looks prettier than she expects it to because a park in the city is probably full of tramps or lager cans they leave behind, but today it was particularly beautiful, shimmering with the strokes of the wind. Taking out her phone she kisses it for luck but no signs of revival, then one duck makes a splash. He had said 14:00. Stretching her toes in to a point and then back again, Amy thought to herself that once she did ballet and later she had aspirations of being a backing dancer for R&B music videos. Where could she be if Amy had pursued these dreams? Where could he be? Biting her lip, we know what she’s thinking, but why would he do that? 

‘Prick’, she says at herself. The reason her phone’s dead is because she had been calling his number every half hour after he was late by two hours, then every five minutes after the third hour. There was probably never an intention for him to show up, but she mistook his positive messaging as a promise to meet. He never showed. The wind blew and her skin prickled. Earlier in the morning Amy had moisturised her skin so that it would be smooth to the touch if he ever touched her, just in case he did - you see she wanted to be ready, with smooth skin. She’d also painted her nails a vermillion and applied some hair serum to make her locks smell nice as well as bounce, but she only hoped and couldn’t be sure flirting would occur. She had thought it was a date but…

Big. Fat. Tears plop next to her hands that grip the bench oh so hard. She sobs but tries to stifle it and ends up snorting and then getting a bout of hiccups. The wind rushes past her rouged cheeks to evaporate off her rolling tears and to leave crusty salt marks by her ears. Poor Amy. Nothing would wish this upon her, particularly not the guy who’s really very fond of Amy but mistook Saturday for a Sunday. Tomorrow Patrick would turn up on the south side of the bridge at two o’clock precisely and wait and wait and wait.

Girlfriends

Does the girl who secretly wishes she was gay so she wouldn’t have to feel like making up excuses for her odd behaviour suffer from a mental illness? Man I wish so much I was in to girls and their cute smiles and small frames. I’d take them out on fantastic dates to places that felt like lost gems of the city, impoverished parts of town with an independent book store café that turns in to a bar at night and has a roof garden with a view that says to her, I can be knowing, arty, dangerous and poignant – what sort of other date place or dude could offer you that? I’d smoke a roll-up cigarette offer her a ¾ profile view of my strangely beautifully lit face in the dusk air, then we’d go back inside and I’d compliment her some more and buy her cake.

A Butcher's

What is this?

A Saturday night and a good friend Bo leads the merry folk to a pub, The Jolly Butchers, incase you were wondering and it’s the run up to Christmas. 

To be hung on display.

It dawns on her with pint in hand and swift looks around the room that she had never been part of the meat-market, the free for all. Maybe it’s because it’s the run up to Christmas that there were more brash jumpers in the room being fashioned by boyish faced men with beards who looked straight past people and made you feel self-conscious.

Rumps look delicious.

His ego bristles as he scours the room to find new challengers, acquaintances and hot totty. A minute ago he’d ordered a hot toddy but the barman in faintly rolled-up sleeves said with a sneer,‘we don’t do that here mate’ and that was that, he got a real ale instead. Apart from the sensitivity he suffered about his height (he was shorter than the rest but only by a margin in some cases) he had the happy demeanour of an American, which bodes well for when talking to women. He was off chattering to flocks whilst in corners and tables others were left to brood.

A grim flash of the cleaver.

She caught sight of a reflection in the enormous strained mirrors hanging off the old-mauve walls. She caught sight of three men dotted around the room looking in her direction, at her with bared teeth and continual side-glances thinking she hadn’t noticed. She was in a white shirt with red lips on display and a shot of white pain fell her insides with each stare. Any pain was soon to dissipate as she lapsed back in to conversation, gulped down more beer, oh the haven of inane murmurings, to pretend not to have seen, not to have cared.

Chopping and the slicing and the gutting of the meal.

The two are next to each other by some chance push and shove of the people getting their drinks infront. She’s drunk and content to be surrounded by the squealers so long as she can carry on with her friends to the next pub and club, but he wants more of her smile and her hair in his life so turns and says, ‘can I get you a drink?’. She’s not going to refuse because he looks well put together with combed back hair like from the 1950s, and why not gorgeous, flaunt what god gave you. She tells him to come over to her flock and bring the pack along with him, the girls love a bit of attention, and he’s bitten off more than he can chew but what fun there is to be had in a meat-market.

Hang out the carcasses on the butcher's hook. 

Make sure t’clean the windows so the wives can get look.

Tuesday

Love. When neither one trusts the other one cares at all. Not one bit.

One thinks the other hates them, with their guts. The other thinks the other is nonchalant. The epitome is when two persons sit on a bench in a fading summer’s day in silence, not thinking of anything other than it feels better to be near each other than it does not to be. Not a matter of conversation simply presence. Then they aren’t lonely. They are happy. But love, forsaken, taken for granted and lost to eternal thought, never makes its presence known.

Eras

It was like what it was in the 90’s

                       It could have been the 60’s

                                        And it felt like our 20’s

One Wedding

I attended the first wedding of my life. It was emotional. It was Quaker.

There were friends and family (lots of family) and two people who looked like their nerves had flown off with their hearts. We sat in a room in silence for 45 minutes, but people spoke, like the sturdy father stood up and read something from the Bible (1 Corinthians chapter 13:1-13). As he spoke his tenor voice tremorred until tears were being wiped away off his elderly cheek, and I looked at Claire and cried myself. The silence made everything more intense and more surprisingly truthful. I am used to showmanship and bravado but here was naked truth, and it moved me to tears. A woman stood and sang an old Irish song with the clarity of an unearthly being. The brother recited a poem and turned to the bride, his sister, and said shyly 

"Congratulations". 

The two said their vows which began with "I take my friend Claire/Paul..." and they both had tears and tissues at hand. Later on in the evening, at the reception everything was less sobered and by the end kids and oldies were fist pumping to We Built This City, plus the food was classic. I shared a rolled cigarette with an aunt. We ambled up Castle Acre, a ruin of a Norman fortress dating back from over a thousand years ago. Everyone looked wonderful and I raised my heart and ambitions to Claire and Paul. The happy couple.

(I Corinthians)

13 If I speak in the tongues of men or of angels, but do not have love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. ² If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing. ³ If I give all I possess to the poor and give over my body to hardship that I may boast, but do not have love, I gain nothing.

⁴ Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. ⁵ It does not dishonour others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. ⁶ Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. ⁷ It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.
⁸ Love never fails. But where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away. ⁹ For we know in part and we prophesy in part, ¹⁰ but when completeness comes, what is in part disappears. ¹¹ When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put the ways of childhood behind me. ¹² For now we see only a reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.
¹³ And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.