Thom's house

My good friend Thom moved away from Manchester today. He was the main connection in my life between Sheffield and Manchester, and now he has gone, to Chester, briefly, and then on to London. Last night I went round to his house to collect the Woody Guthrie CD I’d lent him, and for one last beer under his roof. I was glad Ed was there too.

I felt sad. With all the toys packed away, it didn’t seem like their house anymore. What happened to the bookshelves? And where had that breakfast bar come from? It was like looking at an echo of the place I knew, the same but fainter, distorted. Thom’s house was the setting for lot of fun times. I remember sweet potato and goats cheese mash and making a crumble one Sunday after the football. I remember playing the name game on the night that Owen was leaving. I remember a very spicy Chorizo soup. I remembered kissing Liz for the first time, the exact moment, in the yard. The pizza party, jerk chicken with Kier, watching The Warriors projected onto the wall. I remember chopping with Miriam one afternoon, as we waited for everybody else to get there. I remember taking Pippa round for mulled wine last Christmas.

“It’s odd how your situation mirrors mine,” said Thom. “There’s something therapeutic about putting things into boxes, don’t you think?” Thom’s house was a happy place for me, an escape from Everett when I wanted to bolt. I wish that I could get it out of a box when I need it in the future. That’s not how things work though.