Arriving somewhere, but not here

Scene: The Brockweir Inn in the Wye Valley - 

I sat in the bar, slack-jawed. 

Opposite me, Baz, a long lost friend from school. We last met in ’72. Over 40 years had passed and we had been reunited for a little over 2 hours.

He had asked me the usual “Where have you been all my life?” question, always a mistake. I had compacted, edited, censored and otherwise strangled my life’s history into two hours of … rises, falls and a series of unfortunate events. He was even daft enough to ask questions.

Once done and dusted, I relaxed into listening mode ready to hear a similar tale and looking forward to imbibing enough real ale to numb the senses.

“Well, let’s see.” He started, “I left school, went straight into teaching college where I met my future wife. We married, had two wonderful daughters and now we have retired into a life of gentle bliss”. (I added the last bit just to introduce some excitement.)

(Faces have been changed to protect the innocent…)

That was it. The perfect life, from my somewhat chagrined point of view.

Not even enough of a story to justify more than a sip of ale.

At that moment I saw the unfairness of life, thus my slack jaw (and lack of inebriation).

I cannot answer which is better, a constantly contented life or one full of highs and lows. We make what we can of it. We must take what we are given. We don’t however, have to philosophise all the bloody time.

Well, that was a year ago, the highs and lows continue. The phrase ‘nothing changes’ seems somewhat inadequate.

And so, having seen my youngest fly the nest, join the mum’s club and get married, we have decided the house is a bit too large and are soon to start doing up an old farm (actually, and slightly scarily appropriately, a wine storehouse - ‘chai’ in french, which also means ‘bottle’ in Thai … )

I’ve searched out photos of the farm from when it was built many centuries ago. I found this old transparency:

It seems that we have a hankering after old things, houses with character, with history.

I discovered, for instance, that several impressionist painters had been there:

… and was, in fact, the site of the famous ‘Cherry trees’ painting by Van Gogh:

Inevitably, despite our best laid plans, the new place will end up larger than the old place, but at least I’ll be able to walk around the snooker table without banging my head, elbows and knees nor having to use half sized cues. 

The more acute amongst you may have noticed the television in the lounge, unusual in impressionist paintings. So would the two cars and electric cable have been with Van Gogh if I hadn’t judiciously removed them…

Meantime, Annick’s dad has been going through his ups and downs. Four days ago; certain death and long faces, two days later, chatting to all and sundry whilst pointing out that he is not actually dying, so what are we going on about?

Where and when he is going to arrive, I’ve no idea. He wants to cling on to life no matter what. A life spent horizontal, without eating or drinking. Maybe not life as we know it…

Anyway, back to the great Philosophers with their lyrics to the song that won the Top award in ‘Greatest Songs Ever on Planet Earth’ competition: 

All my designs, simplified
And all of my plans, compromised
All of my dreams, sacrificed

Arriving somewhere, but not here.

(Porcupine Tree 2005)