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.

The non-loneliness of the short-distance cyclist: post script

Following my recent day of being randomly accosted by a number of people with varying degrees of bizarreness (in this post), today I happened to pass by the same gentleman mentioned in the first encounter of that particular escapade.

I'd been quite suspicious that his friendly greeting and jovial manner may have been a prelude to him asking for money: well today when I passed him (in a less than salubrious part of town, near where I work) he greeted me with just as much enthusiasm. I wouldn't have noticed him, sat as he was on a low wall near the pavement, nor would I have recognised his face: his actions gave him away though. Immediately I felt on the defensive once again - I wonder whether he greets everyone like that, or thinks he knows me - but he then proceeded to make a few comments about the weather.

I responded in kind - yep, fingers crossed it stays like this and so on, the sort of conversation you'd have while queueing in a shop - and that was it. A short wave, and onwards.

So he wasn't, it appears, after money. Whatever the reasons for his seemingly pathologically cheery disposition, it's nice to be proved wrong.

A contender for the laziest post award, if such an award exists

I've just been out cycling for a couple of hours.

I've also just read this post, on But Why?'s site. It describes, with uncanny accuracy, how I feel having been out cycling for a couple of hours.

Therefore, in some kind of circular logic (given that this feeling is of uselessness and contentment), it has saved me trying to find the words to write how I feel having been cycling (you guessed it) for a couple of hours.

Thanks Dr But Why?, there's a cheque in the post*.





*not strictly true. Not true at all in fact.

For Signs

Signs asked me if I'd posted any photos of Berlin, following me commenting here. Well it gives me an excuse to post some more doesn't it? I've lots of more obviously touristy photos but I thought that Signs, as an ex-dweller of Berlin, might find these ones a little more interesting (I reserve the right to be wrong). In an "I can do requests" manner, I'm happy to post a few more if there's any demand...

Complaint: response

Although I was starting to wonder whether I was actually going to get a reply to this, it arrived yesterday. The salient points are as follows:

"...I was sorry to hear of the details of your journey and I apologise for the inconvenience this caused. As an apology, I have ordered a cheque for £14.60, to cover the cost of your ticket and the additional bus ticket that you had to purchase, which will be sent in the next 7 - 10 days."

I'm very, very pleasantly surprised by this - overall it was a more than reasonable and thoughtful response, over and above my expectations. Now £14.60 isn't a huge amount to ask for but the fact that they've seen fit to reimburse it without fobbing me off with vouchers or excuses is the main thing as far as I'm concerned.

I'll be writing back to thank them for their response, it only seems right to do so.

The non-loneliness of the short-distance cyclist

It seems to have been one of those days where strangers want to talk to me or tell me things. I don't see this as anything to do with a boost in my charisma mind you.

It began when I was walking through town to work - a man some twenty yards away raised his hand, smiled and shouted, how you doing? I looked behind me to see who he was talking to, only to find that there was nobody there. He continued with other words of greeting as we got closer. This seemed to me to be leading towards the territory of him asking me for money - it does happen with some regularity around this part of town - but whether or not this was the case, his attempts at disarming me with his warmth were met with a curt Morning! and I walked on.

Later in the day, as I was walking along a suburban street to a work appointment, a boy of about twelve held up a £10 note and asked if I would go in the off-licence to get some alcohol for him. He responded to my refusal with but I've got the money, which led me to wonder if he'd ever tried to ask a stranger to actually provide the funds as well.

On the bus on the way home a chap with an inane grin got on and promptly addressed the driver with a strangely satisfied-sounding Waaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrghhhhhhhhhhhh! as he showed him his day ticket. He then walked down the bus, giving me a big thumbs-up and saying a barely-coherent Alright? as he passed me by. He spent the rest of the journey sat at the back, occasionally making loud utterances along the lines of HAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAHAHAHAAAAARRRRRRGGHHHH!

Back home I wasted little time in making the most of the change in the weather, and went cycling for an hour and a half. As I neared home, I slowed my pace a little as I went up a hill (I must be losing my touch since I was recently boasting about gaining speed uphill), and noticed a thin-looking man with an intense, slightly haunted expression on his face, his eyes sunken but startlingly wide. He was staring at me as I rode by, and said with some certainty, your back wheel has fallen off.

I tacitly thanked myself for trusting what grasp I have of the laws of physics rather than looking behind to where the back wheel should be. It certainly felt like it was still there, and that was good enough for me. I must admit to making a quick check once I'd arrived back home though.

Just being

I returned to the Gower Peninsula this weekend, the second time I had been there: the first was some 17 years ago. So much of the territory was familiar enough to trigger off recollections, but the immediacy of the circumstances was more than enough for me to enjoy the moment and not to indulge in nostalgia.

There was much activity: driving, talking, walking, laughing, eating, drinking. There was much to stimulate the senses: warm sunshine, incredibly strong winds, driving rain, sea air, sand everywhere. Though the weather was at times harsh, it added to the experience, was an integral part of it rather than spoiling it: there's nothing like being warm and dry inside a tent at night while the wind howls just on the other side of the canvas, upon which the rain beats a heavy, constant tattoo.

It was a pleasure to be out, and to watch the sand whipped up by the wind into mini-tornadoes; to climb hills and explore caves; to feel the exhilaration of being out in the elements, followed by the delights of good food and beer.

But most of all, as we walked for miles along the beach, it was good to head away from the others for a while and to walk along the shore just at the point at which the waves made their furthest inroads onto the beach. Here I could allow myself to be silent, to be filled with silence, to let the sea wash the disquiet far out into the distance.









Here, just for a short while, I was afforded the luxury of just being.