Several hundred miles later, most of them motorway
I had to leave the house this morning on this sunny day.
The beer was off, shopping was for snubbing.
Early today I crashed, like Windows Vista freezing
I needed some balance, and a chance to go out walking
So to Luzley I went; an excuse to see 'real country'.
The last two days were most memorable;
Two friends and a win most formidable,
Especially that day I went to Burnley.
I caught the 'bus to see my fellow artie
Expecting only to see her in Burnley.
Instead I was home hours later.
We continued to Aintree for another lecture
Truly a day for me to remember
Rounded off by singing on the motorway.
Sunday, back to Earth, trying to recover
I returned to the road, moving, in my element;
Away from home on my own in contentment.
This Saturday was one of the few I had free from football. Naturally, I took the bus to Manchester to start my journey there.
As ever, I stayed in the city centre, as the thought of a trip to Kettering was twinned with 'Manana'. With an England game on, I did my best to avoid this, and thought of the free buses from the centre to a museum in Cheetham. I was pleased to go this way the following day, avoiding omnibus editions of those besides Northern Counties bodied Leyland Olympians in Greater Manchester Transport livery.
For dinner, I shunned the 'Food Chain', all plastic butties and Greggs' pasties for munchies at Afflecks Palace, where succulent sausages took centre stage on an all-day breakfast. On completing my eating, I continued browsing. I took the stairs to the top floor for the retrospective clothing store. The stall was packed. The clientele were in the way, looking for leather trousers. As ever, the coats were some distance from the ties and jumpers. I wanted to outdo my boss with a rather dapper Paisley patterned kipper.
Looking for the ties, I was taken by surprise by a rather extraordinary jersey, that I had last seen seventeen years ago. I looked a little closer. The jumper looked familiar in its Blackpool sand colour. I turned the garment round. It made me jump.
There I saw nearly fifty white stylised ducks with orange feet and beaks. It reminded me of some happy years in West Didsbury. That same jumper was worn by a favourite teacher of mine from when I was nine. The last time I saw her wear it was when Deacon Blue's 'Real Gone Kid' was a top ten hit.
For the fiver they were charging, I bought the thing as a momento of seventeen years ago. I asked a few others if they remembered - or even wore one of these jerseys. I held the thing, and it took me back to West Didsbury. It took me back to the '80's. It took me back to the lesson with the Indian collage made of curry to celebrate Diwali.
Rewind and Return Before 7pm
You will see me standing on a back shelf
Behind a counter with a thousand others.
I'm usually Police Academy 3,
The Porky's franchise or ET;
Blockbuster or Straight To Video Turkey.
Sat with many others, I feel lonely.
I await the day they take me away.
It's usually for one day
As I await a finger to press 'play'.
First I inflict the copyright warning
A favourite for many fast-forwarding.
Then I prolong the torture
By showing them the trailer
I tell them which films are due
Though the first thing they do
Is hit 'fast forward'.
"Coming soon from your dealer
Some 'Who Will Save My Tearjerker?'
Or whichever yawnsome sequel is due".
Ten minutes later, you're held captive to the trailer
And forget the film you're about to see.
Then you awaken and find the film's not far behind
Once you've seen the company's ident.
Usually, you'll place me into some machine
From the top or the front
Sadly it's a way of life almost defunct.
They've turned to DVDs and downloads
Where the picture quality is better than me.
Actually, I knew others, whose picture
Was sharper, with the sound more superior
But I won because I was cheaper (or so they said)
It was actually my format's availability,
Of Cannibal Holocaust and Emmanuelle.
Swept Up in Pattern
I saw a set of numbers which enthralled me no end
Like snow I yearned to scatter them
And be caught in the pattern
In my home.
I couldn't touch the numbers
They were the operator's; it was down to them to do the cleaning,
Though for me, the squares were fascinating.
In pink, green, or blue with white text
I would often vex my resignation
In being unable to form a collection
And being hypnotised by the numbers.
Instead I made do with a steel canister
One which advertised a make of talcum powder
And created a snowstorm in my bedroom.
"It's snowing" I cried "It's snowing"
Though my mum couldn't help noticing
My resemblence to a certain flour grader.
Getting out of her state of flux
She summoned her trusty Electrolux
Thus postponing my version of Siberia.
The snow was hypnotising and mesmerising
To my mother, most infuriating.