Always sat in the same corner

I was back in Derbyshire this weekend, and went for a couple of drinks in one of the local pubs. In this particular drinking establishment, there used to be an elderly lady who always sat at the same table in a corner. A tiny, frail thing she was, and - I guessed - in her late seventies.

She would sit there, sipping slowly from a glass, and smoking the occasional cigarette. In lighting up another, her ever-present tremor - which served to heighten her sense of frailty - would become more apparent. Her whole body would seem to shake during the action of putting the cigarette in her mouth and lighting it up. The shaking would then subside, to a significant degree.

I knew nothing about her, nor did I have any real curiosity: for the most part, she was just the elderly lady who was always sat in the same corner. I never spoke to her - the bar staff would exchange a few words with her when collecting empties, and on the couple of occasions when I heard her voice, I couldn't tell what she was saying. She reminded me of my paternal grandmother, in that her voice too was at the mercy of her tremor, meaning that conversation took much effort and concentration.

I do recall her eyes though, which - again, like my grandmother's - radiated character and an independence of spirit which belied her physical frailty.

One evening, I'd ventured into the pub having made arrangements to meet up with a friend for a drink. I'd arrived slightly late but, as I scanned the room, I couldn't see him anywhere. It did come to my notice that the old lady was sat in her usual corner though, and I also felt a little annoyed when I saw that the pub was going to have the first of a regular karoake night, and were just about to get started.

I sat down with my pint, idly people-watching and wondering where my mate was. The karoake was, I had to begrudgingly admit, grimly entertaining: a note-perfect version of "Return to Sender," though sung in the broadest of Derbyshire accents, and consistently half a bar out of step with the backing music, was the most memorable. A Robbie Williams wannabe sang a couple of Oasis songs. Someone did a passable "Disco 2000." Still no sign of my mate.

I was getting ready to finish my drink and leave, and then I noticed something which sat me right back down again. The guy operating the karoake was encouraging people not to be shy, and to get up on stage and sing: the old lady had got out of her seat (something I'd never witnessed previously) and was making her way shakily across the room.

Surely she's not heading for the stage, I thought (or rather, hoped). Maybe she's going to ask to have the volume turned down. But no, she stepped awkwardly onto the stage. This, I was telling myself, is going to be horrible: a real car-crash moment. I realised I was clenching my teeth and frowning a little with tense anticipation of what I imagined I was about to sit through.

As the lady spoke with the karoake man, I noticed that the general hubbub in the room had gradually subsided and all eyes were on the stage. The man was pointing at the selection of songs but she was shaking her head: she was going to sing something unaccompanied. Oh, shit, I thought. This is going to be as compelling as it is painful. I'd still been holding onto some faint hope that she might pull a stunt like a septagenarian man in a bar in Nottingham who had spiked his grey hair up with soap and then got on stage and sang "Firestarter," reducing everyone to stitches.

I was actually feeling quite nervous.

She looked - if such a thing were possible - even tinier and more frail, stood centre stage with all the lights on her. The man had placed the microphone back on its stand and lowered it down for her, and now she stepped forward a little.

She started to sing. Thanks to her shaking, the first few words sounded choked. I was biting my lip, hoping this would be over quickly.

Then something remarkable happened.

She took a deep breath, paused for an instant as if to gather all her strength - her very essence - and then continued. What followed was a song about losing her sweetheart to someone else: heartbreak, sweet sorrow, and jealousy. The words were clearer now, and she was finding her voice: clear in tone, delicate and feminine, and seemingly much younger than she.

Her tremor would noticeably alter the pitch of her voice from slightly sharp to slightly flat, but this just seemed to heighten the emotions that she was conveying. Now, as she got into her stride, she was transformed - she was the young woman experiencing a broken heart for the first time, simultaneously innocent and world-weary, betrayed and lovelorn. No longer was it just her eyes which seemed to transcend her years, it was her whole being.

And when she sang the word "jealousy," it was devastating. Her voice was breaking free from the tremor, finding its pitch, and the combination of notes and those three syllables was one of the most moving things I've ever seen.

She reached the last verse, pausing slightly again for a moment as if to gather her remaining reserves. That lilting voice, those sorrowful words were almost too much to bear, and when she sang the final note she was off-key: which, somehow, made it perfect.

There was a moment of stunned silence, and in that moment she visibly wilted as though transformed back again from the young woman of the song. But the applause quickly came, cheers and whistles too, loud and enthusiastic. She stood for a moment, old and frail again, but with those bright, determined eyes looking round at everyone and taking the whole thing in: and then, having been helped down from the stage, she made her way back to her usual seat, the cheers not dying down until she was back in her place.

I bought myself another drink and went and sat outside for a few minutes, a little glassy-eyed. What I'd just seen left me pretty much speechless for the rest of the evening: I was glad my friend never showed up after all.

Weekend

Back in the mid nineties, I moved into a shared house with five other people. I'd been at art college with all of them. By now we'd all been away from college for a couple of years or more, but being in this house together was like a throwback to student days, in some ways - albeit with much more housework and washing up being done on a regular basis.

There was something else which was to distinguish it from those earlier times as well: the six of us were soon to become seven, since two of those who had moved in were going to be parents. We'd already known before we moved in that she was expecting: she made sure we all knew about it so that if anybody was unhappy about the prospect of sharing with a newborn then they had plenty of notice to find somewhere else to live.

I wasn't unhappy about the prospect, I think I was indifferent. I didn't dislike kids (except those noisy bastards on the bus), but I didn't have any great fondness for them either. I wasn't sure what to expect really, and as the due date neared, I was more than preoccupied by my father's terminal cancer. At such a time it was quite easy for me to get sad and morbid about a lot of things, and I frequently did. So when I thought about my own childhood, I felt quite down about it - so many memories of many happy times playing seemed tainted by the thought that those adults around me might find it a chore to keep me entertained and occupied, rather than it being fun for them too.

The thought was upsetting, but I couldn't dispel it. This is, of course, the kind of perspective you can have on life when you're not exactly a happy bunny, and it serves to fuel your unhappiness (as if you needed it).

If and when I deviated from these miserable spells for any length of time, a reminder that I was about to lose my dad at any point in the coming weeks or months would kick in like a reflex action, as though to prevent me from experiencing anything other than disquiet and worry.

GY was born, brought home from hospital. I was happy for his parents, but inside I was still utterly indifferent. If he cried in the night, the house was large and sturdy enough for the sound not to carry. Chances are I wouldn't have been asleep for it to wake me in the first place.

Still, despite the fact that he seemed to spend most of his first weeks crying, shitting and sleeping (didn't we all), we all thought he was cute, heightened by the fact of his mixed heritage.

A few weeks later, me and him were getting on like a house on fire. I would laugh hysterically when the cat yawned, and he yawned in turn. He would laugh hysterically when I pulled stupid faces. He would be absorbed for ages when I played on a drumkit improvised from bottles and tin cans, and I would be amazed to watch him seemingly discover his left foot for the first time (it took him several more days for him to find his remaining foot).

It was great fun. It was a delight. It was, I realised, a boost for my sanity since it provided a necessary balance: my dad's deterioration grew ever more evident, as he lost the ability to do things for himself, was doing each and every thing for the last time. Here, in this house, was someone who was doing everything for the very first time, and it was all a magnificent revelation (not just for him). This had been the darkest time for me so far, and for the time being the privilege of witnessing all this, first-hand, was helping to lift me out of it.

After all this, when I reflected back on my own childhood, most of those dark, depressing thoughts had now been cast aside: because now I was able to see just what an amazing experience it could be for me, an adult, to let go of adult concerns and be a child again to my heart's content. It was cathartic, to say the least.

How nice it was last weekend, then, to spend a couple of days with two good friends and their own child, and to revisit such wonderful moments. More memories to be treasured.

Two pairs of trousers

So. Following on from my previous post, I met troUSers again, twice. First time, on Friday night at a club in another part of the country where he was due to play.

Second time, he came down here yesterday evening and we had a few beers and a good old chat.

How fitting that the weather has been warm and glorious for the events of the last few days, its provided the ideal backdrop for some golden moments on both occasions.

The Friday was hectic, quite an adventure, involving a lot of driving (thanks to a good friend who was willing to share the adventure), map reading, navigating through a relatively unfamiliar city, checking in and all the rest. Its one of the first times I've been on the guest list at a club - and how nice to confuse the people working the door, by having the same name as one of the performers.

I'm not going to describe the whole thing - I wouldn't know where to start. Definitely the best night I've had in a good while though, and very gratifying to be sat on a settee watching troUSers doing his stuff in front of an appreciative audience. He's got an amazing voice and his music was great stuff. Later on, after quite a few cans of Red Stripe, there we were dancing manically to a rather bizarre assortment of tunes, which makes me chuckle every time I think about it.

But I couldn't begin to do either meeting justice. I was sat on the bus back home last night after he got on the train back to where he was staying (he'll be back in LA now), and I sat there shaking my head in disbelief and wonderment. A little choked up, actually - at how a friendship which started as an oddity, a curiosity (see the previous post), was able to be sustained beyond the spurious but novel circumstances of its inception.

Years and years of letters, emails, tapes, cds, ideas, stories, opinions being exchanged. At times, months of silence - and then, a resumption of the contact.

Once, we hadn't spoken for about a year - then he split up with his boyfriend the same week I split up with my girlfriend, and we were back in touch, recounting our woes. We're very different in many ways and yet always able to get on - at least, within the confines of emails and the rest. I was a little nervous about meeting him again though. Twelve years had passed since I last saw him, and many things have changed during that time of course - what if, in real life, the conversation dried up, things fell flat?

No chance. Far from falling flat, it feels like our friendship has deepened, and blossomed. We could have great fun on Friday, well into the early hours. We could also slip easily into wide-ranging, mutually interesting conversation over some quality beer last night. I was genuinely sad to see him go last night - but we both promised that the gap between this and our next meeting will be much smaller.

Thing is, its really my turn to go over there to see him now. I'd better start saving for the air fare. That way, I can be sure that more golden moments lie ahead.