Flying V

My train overtook a low flying V of geese on the way to St Helens. I saw them from the rear first, behind and to their left. As I overtook, I saw them in profile, and then looked to my front again as we accelerated past. I smiled, thinking of the Bluetones and Marblehead Johnson until the train pulled into the next station. The geese caught up, flew past, and arced over a barn in the middle distance.

A man paid, and got onto the bus at RNCM. “My bag!” he said, panicked, to the bus driver, “will you wait?” He dashed off the bus, and into the pub. Ten seconds. Twenty seconds. Thirty seconds. He ran back on. “Thank you!” I looked at my neighbour. We were both grinning.

I went to Blackpool, and it was shit.

Rather than go to the pub with Dunk and Ryan last night, I opted to get an early night and get off to Blackpool first thing.

"Why are you going to Blackpool? It's horrible."

My colleagues, my friends and my housemates all asked the same question. I didn't know what the answer was. I'd never been. Perhaps that was it. What could be nicer than a sunny August day by the sea?

I didn't get a sunny August day by the sea though. I got cold, heavy rain. I made a mistake - I made several, as it happens, but this was a big one - by getting out of the train a stop early for "a quick look at the Pleasure Beach." What looked like light drizzle from inside the train was far from that. Horrible icy rain. I put on my jumper, but it didn't make much difference. Within fifteen minutes I was soaked. Rain had soaked through my cargo shorts, through my underpants, through my jumper, and through my bag. My trainers sloshed with every step I took. I ducked into an arcade and tried to use my phone's GPS to find my way. My phone was wet. My beautiful new phone. Oh fuck. Should I continue to wander blindly around town, and get wet, or try to dry off in the amusements? What a predicament. Water dripped from my elbows. I saw a TK Maxx sign, and decided to head into the shopping centre. I headed for the toilets to try to dry off a bit. Not good. I put my phone in the path of the hand dryer and left it there. When it stopped, I put the phone back underneath. Three times. Four times. The dryer shorted out. I moved onto the next one for more of the same. Still no joy. Shit. I was sort of dry from the wrist down now, having tried to rescue my phone. I tramped to Primark, and bought a new t-shirt and a hoody to wear to keep me warm. I asked for a plastic bag, to transplant my wet gear into. "We only do paper I'm afraid mate," he said, "a bit daft for somewhere as wet as Blackpool, eh?" Very daft, I thought. "Thank you," I said. Back to the toilets to change out of my dripping uppers and into the new gear. My mood still stank, thinking of my phone. My underwear was still wet too. I wanted to go home. Where was the bloody train station?

I stepped out of the shopping centre to glorious sunshine.

It was half twelve. If I'd have gone to the pub with Dunk and Ryan last night, I would be arriving around now. So it goes. I got on the train.

Cycling, Miriam, Beer, Beer, Beer

I went to a cycling conference with ALF. The audience’s attire was mixed: a suit here; a short-sleeved shirt, smart shorts and loafers combo there; several in a polo shirt and khakis; one or two hardcore types in neon and lycra.

Afterwards I met up with Miriam, who I hadn’t seen for ages. It was brilliant to see her. We talked about cycling, about running, about work, and about chewing gum. Nothing much, but much more than nothing too. We pulled into Stockport, and hooked up with Thom and Al before the Beer Festival. Thom was being weird again, as he has been for the last six months since he moved out of Withington. Distant, disinterested, elusive. Where’s his appetite for fun gone?



At the beer festival I drank…

Crown Wheat Beer 5.5%
Ulverston Harvest Moon 3.9%
Salopian Barry's light Mild 4.0%
Marble Bee 4.8 %
Farmhouse medium 5.8%
Janet’s Jungle Juice at 6%
A pint of something else strong

…and thought I’d lost my keys. Hammered.

Lucinda is a legend

The temporary cap on my chipped teeth fell off last night, after eight years. I wasn’t sure what to do, so I texted Lucinda to ask for some advice.

- Would you like me to have a look at them?
- That’d be great, can I come round now?"
- I meant look at them at work. Tomorrow maybe?"
- Wow! Yes please that’d be amazing, thank you!"

I popped to Thorntons to pick up a little something to show my appreciation, and then headed out via the magnificent Victoria Station towards Bolton.

On the train to Bolton, an old lady comes over to explain a landmark we'd passed. She wears bright pink lipstick, like neon.

I think I must have copied down the postcode wrongly, as I found myself exploring 5LU rather than 4LU. Lost! In Bolton! Fuck! I was being squeezed in as a favour, and I was going to be late. I felt like I was in a mediocre sitcom. Opposite a co-op, by a pharmacy Lucinda had said.

Picture message: Do you work here?



Answer: No. Then I found out where it was, and I ran. And ran. And ran. In my shirt, in my tie, in my shoes and work trousers, I ran. I wonder if Lucinda has ever had a sweatier patient.

And, fountain of kindness that Lucinda is, my treatment was far more than the look she'd offered. An x-ray, a burr-ing, a sort of cap on one tooth, root canal work on the other, a temporary dressing, and a Spiderman sticker. And, above all, a complete absence of my normal knotting stomach of fear. I felt so relaxed. What a brilliant dentist. I'm so very grateful. Thanks a million Lucinda.