The planned 6k incorporating the park’s worst climb, two complete laps but still shorter than one of my regular bespoke laps of the last year, was abandoned when I realised it meant running into today’s strong gusts. I still haven’t worked out if my BOUFFANT is an advantage or disadvantage when it comes to the running in the harsher weather, but it was getting naughty out there by the time I eventually got into the park just before midday. I settled for a 5.5k, fairly straightforward, in the main staying off the usual muddy trail.
On my way to THE café, I stopped off in Brixton and went into Poundland for what was meant to be a flash visit to collect the ultimate false economy, i.e. – the Poundland battery. Oh Kodak. How the mighty have fallen. They Kodak batteries are now kept in the first aisle, some ten metres from the entrance but what should have been a simple pick up and pay for moment was slowed down to a ridiculous degree by what I think was a central or Eastern European family, dressed like something off a reality show, excessively glamorous, early thirties, with two young kids, not appreciating that there were people coming in and out of the store. A jam soon developed behind them and then there was the added difficulty of having to negotiate one’s way around the two women’s Botox-pumped lips and fake eyelashes before I was actually able to get to the batteries. Why are women doing this? The trout lips, a decade ago, were limited to Sloane Square, Knightsbridge, those kinds of SW1 post codes, but now they’re all-over south London and very popular in the south London Mediterranean community.
I then made a brief stop off in Superdrug in Brixton for the Halls Lozenges I’m addicted to before getting caught up in a passing torrent of rain. Loving the spring.
I popped in around 13:30HRS to see my aunt and uncle for the first time this week. I’m always mindful when in the lift up to their floor that my uncle is a lift voyeur. He loves watching all the CCTV action on their intercom and was disappointed when Building Management wrote to all residents (a letter that of course they didn’t understand) that these lift cameras will no longer be active by the end of the year. I think my uncle should just be happy he’s had 30 years of lift voyeurism at his fingertips.
My aunt and uncle were arguing over the date of his grim cancer diagnosis. My aunt said he had now survived 4 months with his diagnosis and that was evidence if he put his mind to it, he could be around for longer than he anticipates. My uncle pointed out that he was only diagnosed 6 weeks ago…
There then followed a disagreement over the manner in which my uncle handed over the TV remotes (there are two) to my aunt yesterday. My aunt claims he threw them at her when she requested them, one of them striking her frail hands. My uncle, inevitably, disputes this version of events. My aunt told him she feels she could put together a strong case against him.
“I’ve not got long left. I don’t give a s*** what you do.”
Gallows humour is serving the family well right now.
After leaving my aunt and uncle’s, the lift took a while to come up to their floor and all I could hear was the pair of them still arguing over whether my uncle may have thrown or not thrown the remote controls her way.
There followed a quick Stockwell Lidhell trip. These guys aren’t as rude as the Brixton Pistons branch, but I don’t think there’s a Lidhell branch that isn’t rude. I wanted to use cash in there today. It was busy. Eventually a self-checkout offering card and cash became available. I walked over, started scanning my stuff only to almost slip. I looked down at the floor and realised that the reason the woman at that till just before me had left so hastily was she’d dropped a yoghurt and couldn’t be asked to call someone over to clean it. She’d left all her shopping at the checkout.
I made staff aware of the issue and twice had to tell one of their regular rude guys that I wasn’t the one that had dropped the yoghurt and that I had arrived at the till unaware I was stepping in yoghurt. It reminded me of the time the Space Daddy, my co-writer on an old comedy project, and I were in Bloomsbury for a TV meeting back in 2003. Chatting on our way in to meet with the producer, I suddenly heard a faint voice behind me.
“Dan…Dan…Dan.”
I turned to my side to see the Space Daddy was no longer there. I looked behind me and some thirty metres back, The Space Daddy had walked into a giant mayo spillage that must’ve come off the back of some delivery truck. It was no easy thing to wade out of that on what was a warm spring day. This Lidhell yoghurt today was that, albeit on a much smaller scale.
The Flute Man of SW8
The Flute Man was in his more familiar royal blue sweater today, really going at it with his flute just across the road from the Stockwell Memorial. His scraggly beard is about as scraggly as it can get. I think if beards reach a point where they can’t grow any longer, his beard has reached that moment now.
15:12HRS
In THE café, there was STILL NO HANDWASH IN THE GENTS.
If the dispenser is broken, why not leave a note explaining this?
Have they simply decided that most of the guys here have never embraced the hand wash, so it doesn’t really matter?
A quartet of noisy Gibraltarians are making a racket in here. Among them is the Blind Captain Birdseye lookalike and the woman who I think is his partner and her middle-aged daughter. I remember when they first turned up in THE café early last year, one or two of the staff, notably The Beard, didn’t enjoy serving them. They are quite annoying and every meal ends with them being plastered. This time they’ve been joined by a younger woman in a bright orange top, black leather trousers and lots of rings, who’s having no trouble at all in ensuring she operates at their audio levels.
The Mullet’s gingery/grey beard is looking very bushy now, probably about an extra week’s growth past its peak look. The one thing about the reddish male is they can grow fantastically quick beards with the depth I envy. Opposite me, sat by one of only two radiators in THE café, a sixty-something Russian male, a professional musician he’s currently telling everyone, is hammered at a level not even matched by the quartet of Gibraltarians.
You should be able to hear the plastered one on this café soundscape.
Café Soundscape 15:59HRS
The Russian, by now several sheets to the wind, is trying to make a connection with me. “Gentleman, do you play instrument?”
I note his brown leather jacket, decent to be fair, like the kind of thing some World War Two fighter pilot would wear but I’m less impressed that he’s wearing adidas tracksuit bottoms with it. It puts me in mind slightly of my uncle’s habit of wearing shoes with tracksuit bottoms. There’s a look that thankfully has never caught on.
The Russian attempts to join a table of two Sicilian guys who are boasting about the Cosa Nostra’s potency.
“I am professional musician,” the pissed-up Russian says by way of introduction before almost missing the chair as he attempts to sit down.
16:11HRS
The Mullet brings over my second latte, a decaf, and with last month’s laptop latte ducking still fresh in his mind, carefully positions the tall glass on saucer as far from the laptop as possible.
“You are serious man,” the Russian says from his table, trying to strike up a conversation with me. My family would probably agree with that.
‘Yo no me rio’, was my moniker as a young boy. Translated, it means ‘I don’t laugh’ and stuck to me for a few years after a weekend in Brighton when I was 7 with the Spanish community. I think we’d run down some steep hill, and I didn’t enjoy it. Everyone was laughing, except me, and at that moment, I uttered those immortal words.
“Serious Man, what do you think of the war, Russia – Ukraine?”
I continue to ignore him.
He tries again.
“Are you Chelsea supporter?”
He then begins muttering about the beer. “I don’t like this beer.”
It’s rare for THE café to allow customers to get this drunk. Maybe the cost-of-living crisis means they’re prepared to endure any type of customers.
“How many millions you have now, Serious Man?”
He certainly can’t be referring to this current life of mine.
“Serious Man, you can never have married if you are that serious.”
Well, admittedly, that’s a good shout.
17:00HRS
An ex-waiter, a regular here, and linked, either through blood or his relationship to the little waitress Phil Collins, arrives with his long-time girlfriend/wife. He was the first waiter in here ‘back in the day’ to speak fluent English, albeit American English which makes him sound like one of those annoying MTV Europe VJs (are those still even a thing?). He was here around the time of the 2006 World Cup and because of his English, he was probably the first waiter to properly engage with the non-Portuguese customers. American English pops into the gents and exits quickly, too quickly. Clearly, he’s not made the effort of washing his hands with the handwash in the ladies. I can’t help thinking back to all the lattes American English delivered to me back in the mid-noughties pre-smoking ban café era that is likely to have significantly shortened my life.
In eBay Star Wars Action Figure news, another Last 17 figure came on the market. Anakin Skywalker at £10 is real value because over the last four years, these have often fetched high prices. But unless I turn this life around at this late stage, I’m not going to be bidding. I think though if I ever regain the success, brief and intermittent admittedly, of earlier years, I will buy up all the figures I want and need which would grace my Star Wars Football League.
Café Soundscape 2 17:10HRS
The Russian now connects with a Scot to my right who, thinking it might be easier to engage with him rather than ignore the pain in the a***, tells him he’s from Aberdeen. I learn that the Russian has been here for 33 years, which is a surprise as his English is pretty poor.
I miss a step in their engagement, but Aberdeen sets the Russian right.
“I’m Scottish, not English.”
“Anyone play the saxophone or piano?” I’m sure The Russian has already asked this of THE café.
To my left, one of the quartet of Brazilian women dining says “Let me just go toilet.” It kills me when ‘to the’ is omitted. It’s bad enough they’re saying ‘toilet’ but at least preface ‘toilet’ with ‘to the’. That’s a relationship-ender for me.
Another woman catches Seb K’s attention and asks him if they can have some toothpicks.
By the way, no one, unsurprisingly, has yet to take up yesterday’s ‘sanboories’ mp3 challenge. If you fancy it, scroll through to the bottom of yesterday’s post and email in.
17:42HRS
The Russian glances over in my direction again.
“Are you KGB?”
I’m shortly to gather my stuff and walk out of here without catching his eye. No way I’m talking to this drunk.
As I pay at the counter, Seb K, The Mullet and I exchange a knowing look regarding The Russian.
“You should take him to one of your shows,” smiles Seb K.
In other news, final news for the day, I took out another four library books. This always happens when I’m stressed. A few weeks ago, I’d got my library habit under some control. Now I’m going the other way again.
In the library, they had some toddler event going on and I stumbled on a scene where there must’ve been close to a hundred buggies. I couldn’t wait to get out of there and a couple of female librarians, with all the noise, looked they wished they could join me.
Tomorrow, I’d like to clear out the bag a bit. I never travel light. I dread being stopped and searched by the police, thankfully something that hasn’t happened since my mid-thirties. They never knew what to make of all the stationery and pharmaceutical drugs I travel with and I have to say, I’ve never managed to sort this out. I don’t need half this stuff. Might it be because I never feel at home at, well, home, so the bag, along with THE café, is my surrogate home. Am I again just overthinking this?
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