30th April 2011

I remember getting here…. it was April ’98
I remember their faces, you with your shades and your shoulder bag at the school gates.
You said, ‘You can see the sunlight in the sky ?
You can see Hope Mountain…. You can see the moon’.
No wonder.
( Happy Accident 2001 )

As T.S. Eliot once observed, April is the cruellest month. I have known it to be that way often enough. Equally, it can herald the new beginnings that we are all resigned to eventually embrace. Onward – Change – Growth

Throughout these more clement days, there has been a glorious array of cards and greetings and meetings between all of my pater familias.

April Fools’ Day marked a second birthday for Joey. Bewitched and bedazzled by the gift of all of his visitors, he opted to fill up and in turn empty his toy shopping basket, ringing his shopping till between blasts of laughter. Bless.

It sounds safe and strong when I hear him called Joseph.

Joel and I sat smoking by the back door, leaving it open to fan a fog of fumes, hopefully sparing the boy our habitual excesses. Exhumed, we left soon after, taking the warm air with us, readied for the Friday Night Club.

Janet was peppered with gifts from Lana, Elika and Clint to celebrate Mothers Day. She really is the heart in our home. Our own Queen of Ynys Mon.

Betrothed.

Cynghanedd.

We went visiting again, to the old haunts of EP, full of ghosts and ghouls and people whose names I can never remember these days. Not always, but it can sometimes feel that way.

My Mother was born on the day of the Abdication of King Edward VIII, a novel anniversary in this time of the Royal Nuptials. The only fault that I can find with Mothers Day, is that it doesn’t have a regular set date. That way we could have another Public Holiday. It warrants it in reality, when compared to the others that are available to us. The ability to deliver each generation of humanity…. deserves a little extra.

Regardless, her day was stuffed with chocolates and loved ones and white and yellow and purple blossom, filling the room as we all shared a glass of Cava.

By chance, I came across a card from my daughter Shelley, dated by coincidence on the 3rd April, albeit in 1998, some thirteen years earlier. It was written in EP, from where I had moved to an address in Birkenhead…. 55 Seymour Street if I remember. The picture on the front of the card is a painting by Alfred Carlton Smith, entitled ‘A Fairy Tale’.

Across the weeks in that month and the next, I traipsed back and to, from the Wirral to EP to Chester and to Wrexham in turn. Finding a nights sleep here and there as best as I could. The days were filled with dread, the hours with hesitancy, the minutes with melancholy and the seconds with sadness.

I remember walking through two feet of snow to get to the house of my friend Colin. Walking uphill from Rossett to Llay, knocking hopefully on the way and peering through the windows of the closed looking and tightshut ‘Mount Pleasant’. I would eventually live in that house in Llay myself. A house that would deliver a future, untested just then, but a future nonetheless. 

Inside the card was a letter that Shelley had composed for me. It was faded by the sun, barely legible at all, having been placed within my eye line for many years, in the heat of the front window sill. My soul of course knew it off by heart.

Also that year, Easter Sunday fell on the same day as my youngest daughter Danielles’ birthday. It brought a cold flush, that would eventually shake off and finally lose the last of the wintry spells. It was also the day I started work again. In a hostel in Chester to where I hitch hiked for my first shift.

I was almost lost.

We have lost a few more since then and inevitably, there are less of us now than there were…. Of those gone, I am confident that they will be honoured in this months NOMADS. (NOminations for Murder And Death). A public litany in itself for the great and the good and those who never expected it to be this way – who never expected this to happen;-

Sidney Lumet for ‘Twelve Angry Men’…. Roger Nicholls for ‘Aja’…. Elisabeth Sladen for ‘Dr Who’…. Captain Lisa Head for ‘Bombs’…. Tom Hetherington for ‘Wars’…. A family in Powys for ‘Accidents’ …. John Sullivan for ‘Only Fools and Horses’…. Max the Manx Crank for ‘Human Cannonballs’…. Hubert Schlafly for ‘The Autocue’…. PolyStyrene of X Ray Spex for ‘Oh Bondage Up Yours’…. Madame Ngo Dinh Nhu for ‘Dragon Lady’ ….  Ryan Donovan for ‘Submarines’…. Ronan Kerr for ‘PSNI’…. Peter Moss for ‘Moroccan Cafes’…. Janet Richardson for ‘Ocean Countess’….

At a funeral once, I was told by a chap that I was the image of Trigger, the character from ‘Only Fools and Horses’. The chap laughed as he regaled me, revelling in his own humour. I replied to his comment, lazily…. ‘See you Dave… Cheers’.

Syria…. Libya…. Bahrain…. Japan.

Where…. ?

Dropped a long way down the news table.

Predator drones drop their payloads over the cities that warrant attention. A dry birth, mopped at the brow by the NATO midwives.

More talk of African mediation…. More talk of a ceasefire…. More talk….

Crisis. What Crisis ?

The debris from The Budget crashed through the eponymous April showers, while Norman Lamb refuted anything that attached his name to the proposed Health Reforms. To be fair, he has managed to establish a ‘listening exercise’ that will run its course until June. It is effectively stalled, adjourned and in a queue for a waiting list or an operation perhaps, or indeed a chance to reserve a place on a trolley. A vote of No Confidence from Liverpool. Again.

The newspapers assess the inevitable fall-out, following the expected compensation claims from the victims of the phone hackers. Rooney tweets. Culpable.

We spent an enjoyable day at the virtual races, in celebration of the Grand National. It was nice to meet up with old friends and share a few memories between the wine and the Guinness and the Chicken Shashlik. Two horses were announced dead following the main event, but it didn’t seem to quell the flow of revellers in town. We sat in the sun mainly, allowing me to admire the black, polished sheen, of my new Dr Martens boots. One unexpected plus of the smoking ban, weather permitting of course, is the chance to spend quality time in the avenues and alley-ways and courtyards that qualify for outdoor smoking areas. The town is full of admirable, impressive buildings that inadvertently, are helping to rectify the disappearing art of looking up.

No-one got the winner but Janet did manage to keep her lucky streak going, by calling four home winners on the fixed odds. Her joy was tempered by the helpless prices, crossing her palm with little more than £25.

Just out of interest, can you remember the names of the two dead at Aintree. Or the winner even ?

The hotter weather feels relaxing and helps to warm my warfarin thin blood. I have always prided myself on my handshake but these days, I find myself apologising for my forever frosty fingers. 

The heat has quickened the thickening of the greenery. Photosynthesis. I always liked that word. They have forecast sand storms and showers, from up there in the ether. Sure enough there is a fine dust, covering the washing and the windows and the cars.

It might also account for the brush past for Asteroid 2011 GP59. Circling just on the perimeter of our atmosphere this 50m brute has had a good look at us in its various fly pasts. Drifting through the space between man and the Moon. It’s been busy up there that is for sure.

The Lyrids treated us to a spectacular show of Meteor Showers in the North Eastern skies. Had Yuri Gagarin been with us, he could have taken his window seat and would have been pleased as punch. It was the 50th Anniversary of his first manned space orbit of the Earth.

GARETH COULD HAVE ACCEPTED NOTHING LESS THAN AN INDIGNANT APOLOGY IF HE REALLY WANTED TO BUT INSTEAD IF YOU DON’T MIND….
gareth has resigned himself to the final solution. Have you read his e-book…. you really should.

The following day was the anniversary of Hillsborough. We both forgot to remember, to wear the scarf that we were given that day at the memorial service for the 20th.  

I remember being told the news in the garden, as I walked through the back gate after work. The sun was strong and the Laburnum was already in its full, but potentially poisonous, yellow glory.

Pete S rang on the Saturday afternoon to talk about Dylan as always. I could tell he was a little bit choked. He was there himself after all.

The golf pitched up on the radio. Augusta. The Masters. Howard Clarke is convinced that there is a magnetic hot spot, somewhere in Rays Creek around Amen Corner.

There are yellow flowers in the garden again and they have shaped themselves in stunning detail for weeks now, since their early hesitant flourish.

Kerria Japonica…. Batchelor’s Buttons.

Randys 50th Anniversary CD, which I bought in Antigua, repeats its deeply woven social history for the umpteenth time.

Glyn, our neighbour, puts the car away again. He is 91 years of age. A full 11 years older than The Highway Code, which celebrated its 80th Anniversary this month. I think of my Dad and his sense of frustration.

Bryn arrived unexpectedly and we digressed, in the way that only a pair of old sops like us two can. All that happens in the world of Bryn, we have chosen to call Brynage these days. Someone where he worked had distressed him and told him,

‘You are going to die if you’re not careful…. Soon’. 

This somehow had led him to believe that he was now in ‘The Soon Business’. We giggled our way through an hour or more of this banter, before he announced, in harmony to the reggae rhymed stylings of the song ‘Hey Fattie Bum-Bum’…. the line…. ‘Lambert and Butlers’. A smiling remnant of memory from his troubled past.

An extraordinary thing happened when I bought my lunch from a vendor on the Monday Market in Queens Square. He swore, and I have no real reason to doubt him, that Gary Glitter had, but a couple of minutes before, idled into view of his stall. Completely shorn of his hair and beard and clutching a cane. When challenged by the man, he drifted into the crowd and was gone. 

Containment.

PQR Steve, it’s Alan. We are in Dublin. Do you remember the name of that bar….? Where we met your Mum and Dad that time for a Guinness in the afternoon.

Madigans. North Earl Street. Near to the statue of Joyce

I managed to watch a little of Zeitgeist. I really liked the observation, ‘What should happen doesn’t…. What does happen shouldn’t’.

I do believe I will make that mine.

All the talk is of AV or the Succession Laws or the Wedding. At least there is talk of some sort…. dialogue. Neil Lennon expresses his own thoughts on the darkness of sectarianism.

Looking left into Aston Grove as I was walking to work, the avenue really showed itself to be magnificent. It is a little known joy for us locals, through each of the seasons in turn. White and purple bloom is everywhere already, quietly falling as the trees really hit their stride. Juiced up with chlorophyll and unwittingly helping to hide a magpie in the Beech tree. Probably on the mooch for unsecured nests, to rattle away any stray eggs.

I do like Easter. The language that dresses it all is so powerful. The Crucifixion…. The Resurrection…. The Ascension. I definitely care for it more than I do for Christmas.

Maunday Money
Fish on a Friday
Ooh little honey
Sunday’s my day
Let’s meet up
Let’s meet up
Let’s meet up 
And have some fun.

Good Friday. There is more talk of going camping. Poor Daisy was in a spot of bother. She looked all forlorn, despite her golden yellow livery, as we charged new life into her with the jump leads. I was facing the wrong way, towards three lanes of oncoming traffic. She looked uneasy on the sliproad. I noticed the ambulance, discreetly parked, just opposite Gresford Colliery Club.

Smoking and waiting for an emergency. Sprains and Strains.

Walking to the garage later, I notice that the grass is already crumpled, in a carpet of released, deep blood-red petals, outside the old flat at 67.

Janet has continued to ride her luck. Four draws this time, at a cost to the bookie of more than £250.

Incidentally, two more horses died in the Scottish Grand National, bringing more calls for the ‘sport’ to be banned. Charlie Brookes from the course at Towcester, indicates that they will make a start and ban the use of the whip.

Co-incidentally, ‘Closer to the Edge’ a new documentary about the TT races filmed in 3D, has been tipped to do well. How many human lives have been lost in the name of sport ?

St Georges Day and The Englishman is AWOL. He is mentioned in dispatches and thought to be somewhere in Talacre. He had managed to get my birthday card to me. A little belated but no-ones fault but mine. He does a good card, softening his bluster with blue tones and warm words.

To his credit, he found his way to the Straw Hat for drinks at the fun day. I daresay he would have thought long and hard about not quite making it. The PS3 hackers probably clinched it, accessing and disabling the system. What else was he going to do ? Start a riot in Tesco.

The whole crew were there. Danielle and Shelley got their birthday presents, Chloe brought her flame coloured hair and took away an Easter Egg. Dancing Queen.

I felt Dani’s sadness after we had talked. She held me a little tighter. Her text later was much brighter. Form is temporary…. Class is permanent.

All through the Easter celebrations, the radio reportage was of ‘Aggresive Secularism’. What a concept. 

Calm down dear, calm down.

The Tornados and the Hurricanes continued their damage, barrelling and twisting through the Southern States. In Alabama more than 2oo were counted, bringing a stormy end to the last few hours of the month. More than 300 people are thought to be dead.

The devoted had camped overnight, to wait in The Mall for a sight of the carriage. Eventually, eternally, they can finally cheer the kiss. Or two. A Fairy Tale indeed.

The Duke and Duchess of Cambridge, then duly treated them all to a spin through the locale in the Aston Martin.

As one onlooker had it, ‘…. I’m a bit of a Republican myself but I don’t mind putting my views on hold for a few hours for the sake of a good party….’

And so say all of us…. and so say…. all…. of us….???

More die again in Syria, as the Security Forces contrive another show down with the Protesters. A deadly response to the throng after Friday prayers. Hopefully not as a riposte to the Ambassador being denied his place at the Royal table.

The dawn chorus greeted me just before 5.00 am. L’Auto responder. Despite my tear tinged weariness, it is an awesome way to start the day.

It is impossible surely to maintain such a level of dissatisfaction…. unless there is really something to feel dissatisfied about….moreover, what can we reasonably do to improve our situation.

The Heart Foundation set about me with a cold caller. They are polite but persuasive. I gently remind them that I already give. Chuggers.

Other than that…. Oh…. I almost forgot. The letter. Well, I am sorry but it would be unkind to show it here until I have read it to Shelley herself. She wouldn’t mind though I am sure, if I chose to show you the poem that she wrote for me, inside the card that the letter came with.

love you x

roses are red
violets are blue
i took this chance to say
i love you
this poem is old
and thought of as sad
but i will always
love you dad

x

 She certainly has a little bit of her namesake about her.

Shantih Shantih Shantih

Post – YES – to sjb1606@aol.com for a free download of Happy Accident.