So these days a lot of people didn’t remember me so well, like, but for example, for the last five years I’ve been going the bus depot most days. It’s very colourful up there: there’s lots of banter between the crew and the mechanics and the lasses in the office. I’ll sit on the low wall like, outside and I can hear most of what’s going on through the big double doors. It keeps me company while I eat me chicken wrap. But faces have changed now. Most of the guys my age have moved on really. Sometimes when they see me, they shut the door rather than invite me in. Years ago they used to let me heat me chicken wrap up in the microwave but that’s stopped now. I mean, it’s ok cold. I do me weekly shop down at the Asda: sliced white, baked beans, margarine, ambrosia cream rice, evaporated milk, bunch of bananas, tinned ham for a sandwich, like, eggs for hard-boiled egg, rich tea biscuits, some ice cream for the weekend - mmmm. Then I just grab a load of ready meals. The wife doesn’t like to cook these days since, you know, she rejected jesus. I wake up early nearly every day and go downstairs and watch some of the tv shows I used to watch with my boy when he was a young ‘un. I’ve noticed I pick my nails quite a lot these days. The down-pipe on me shed’s leaking at one of the joints. I got a new sofa the other day. Corduroy material in grey. The wife has took the corner facing the tv so I generally just sit on a little stool that me boy used when he had his supper, in front of the telly, you know. I go down me local most nights. The bar that I usually drink in has been turned into a restaurant but there’s still four or five seats at the actual bar. It’s ok, but as soon as the restaurant fills up it feels like I’m getting in the way so I drink up and go home. Did I tell you that ever since the neighbour moved in I’ve heard this knocking at night. It seems to be coming from the loft but as soon as I go up to investigate it seems to stop. You know that pub I mentioned right ? Well my boy had his first drink in that pub. I haven’t seen him now for, what, about five months, but he always phones him Mum on Sundays, and I get to say hello at the end of the call. That’s it really.
I'm really not sure why but each time I've listened to this it's totally fucked me up. Whether that due to being a few years younger than he is and fearing that this is the future that awaits me, I'm unsure. But anything that can do this to me must be a work of fucking genius.
Thank you Bob, I can relate. Your PB and spouse leitmotiv is but a charabang to my great gran and grandpa who held me close whilst I was abused by our trusted Priest in Stockton on Tees who made me do terrible things to a "goldfish}. Joking aside, I am now going to - stories indeed!!! (tie it tight thoujhbsd.,mnnhb.k
