Month

By Maxim Griffin.

Been a bit of a month – a bit of a year – plans changed, the unexpected occurred – uncertainty and injury, illness, pain – dealing with fools, area managers, middlemen – a saga – there was supposed to be a big hike but life had other ideas – still, our observations continue – hyperlocal, yes – but universal nonetheless – what would Georges Perec do? He’d keep his eyes open and crack on.

A month of rains – the murk persists – spring, however, begins to reveal its battle plan – the cherry trees have begun to blossom – black limbs with tiny, perfect flowers – look up – a constellation of petals – it is 0830 – the youths gather outside the academy – they are eating boxes of hot chicken nuggets from the supermarket, unaware that chicken is not a breakfast meat.

There’s a house down the road – tatty flags strung up – weather ripped, wet – the Christmas tree is still in the front window – the old lady at the bungalow died, family are dividing up the furniture – son-in-law says the funeral is next Friday – a man with five tiny dogs tuts at the state of the potholes – the daffodils are rising and the bins are out.

The river has been up for weeks – a strong brown torrent heading east – fella from the water board is taking measurements, says that it’s been driving the rat population up the sewers, becoming a real problem, says that he usually sees a heron working the river bank this time of year but even that has gone – the storm drain is full of debris – bright green pop bottles, an orange football, some unspeakable grey froth – he says even the Grayfleet is full to bursting, first time in twenty odd years – a bloke leans over the concrete bridge to have a look at two mallards who are braving the swell, says it’ll be a bad year for ducklings.

The church notice board is full of AI generated posters – gloppy cartoons of cute vicars holding cute cakes – it says, ‘Thursday cake day and with tea’ – a blue plaque in remembrance of Tudor crimes with a large plastic planter of snowdrops and crocuses below – three jackdaws are fighting over a semicircle of grass – there is no clear winner but whichever jackdaw holds the territory for the longest will no doubt be declared king – a volunteer points out the leper’s squint to a pair of waterproof clad tourists.

Around town
A pair of lads are going on an adventure – something to do with the Duke of Edinburgh possibly – they have backpacks and maps and are heading out of town Bilbo Baggins style – when they return at dusk they will be covered in mud, a shoe short but giddy despite it – a tale to relate involving a field of stubborn horses and a barbed wire fence – next time they will be more prepared and aim to reach Grimsby by the time of the final bus homeward.

Market day – rained off, mostly – the chap selling oak saplings and chopping boards – a fish van, dressed crabs are a fiver or three for ten – the new pizza place is doing well, he’s a nice fella – Oxfam is long gone, Cancer Research empty – you can tell a lot about the economy of a place by the condition of its charity shops – derelict banks – three – massive buildings – they say one is going to be a themed bar of some kind – a middle aged woman busking, earnest versions of mid-sixties hits in aid of the victims of genocide – a gentleman riding a mobility scooter lends backing vocals to an austere rendition of ‘Waiting For The Man’ by The Velvet Underground – the woman in Yorkshire Trading says town is full of fake notes and duff pound coins – a man with the face of Joseph Beuys and the hat of Joseph Beuys is next in the queue – he is going to purchase several old school rodent traps.

Weather watching
There was a sunny day mid-month – a warm one too, warm enough to leave the big coat at home – everything dried out – enough for lawns to be given the first mow of the year – people commented on this excitedly – shadows return – there is washing on the line – windows are flung open – the level of birdsong shifts up a gear – 15 degrees! – the rains advance again at teatime and will remain – that murk conceals all local landmarks – you know it’s thick if you can’t see the church.

Very late February – grey – lads engage in the urban jumping game of Parkour much to the concern of the rent-a-cops who have sprung up in recent weeks – there is chatter on walkie talkies about whether or not fixed penalty notices can be issued to a wall climbing 12-year-old.

The man at the checkout in the frozen goods store is gauging public opinion on all manner of subjects – the arrest of Mr Windsor, the death of Neil Sedaka, the dreadful fire, the new war – the shoe shop with the perpetual closing down sale has actually closed down – in the window of the art supplies shop are naïve portraits of Marc Bolan, Steve McQueen, a dragon, The Beatles and possibly Margaret Thatcher – someone has been sleeping rough in the porch of the opticians – a break in the cloud – sun – what would Georges Perec do? He’d have a coffee and a look.

Nice enough to sit out – a cappuccino? Why ever not? At the second scalding slurp a familiar face clocks you from across the street – they make a beeline unto you – you see the cogs of the right way to ask whirring in their skull – brief greetings follow in the traditional manner and they go straight for their pressing question – so sorry to hear about your wife, we’d heard she’d been ill – their concern is genuine – a third slurp of drink, air cooled now – will she recover? It must be hard – a fourth slurp to allow the inquisitor to get it out of their head – how is she, really? You wait a beat – well – truth is, she’s really hot.

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