Terrible headache recurring pain since 2 Sundays ago. Last few nights I thought I’d had it: a tumour or a clot. But now it has vanished. All those painkillers I took: ibuprofen, paracetamol, aspirin and diplofenac maybe helped. I don’t know. No alcohol and taking it steady. Sleeping a lot and relaxing too. Maybe that has helped?
I now recall a passage I nearly wrote on Friday, before I lost my signal in the Vale of York.
Had a very important date to keep and, even in my present state, couldn’t let her down. When I saw a very nice image too: in black, and red lips, plunging enticing neck line, I knew that this was the right thing to do: York is fine for encounters even with a bad head and it is where all the true romantics can go.
I took the no. 412 bus from door to door, jumped off on Piccadilly to find cold waiting on the street and Pivini closed for us to meet. So I called and arranged to get warm, if we can, before 11:30 and a chance to warm our feet.
Time flew so soon and I was left alone in the eye to wonder if that was the last that I’d see? But sighed in sight and shortly sat my fair lady, with lips so cherry red, sat with warming cup until I snuggled warm on the bus back from door to door, and returned to prominence did the headache I’d had all along, amongst other fond remembrances.
Maybe I want more from the little that seems left, rattling my hide, on a dying nothing. I was like this a few years ago, before I picked up the pieces and was happy roaming and getting paid. When I saw life on Borough High Street and suddenly wanted this forever. As I ventured in all directions without recall and found much that needed knowing. Oh, ‘to be bored of London is to be bored of life’: as once said. I who is skilled-less from trade to profession and quintessentially from my father’s loins. Have wondered some parts of the Earth to put pressure on my gentleness. As I baulk and cough stubborn at a path: I tread in circles too vicious and poisoned with barbed soul. Forever tortured against this northern town which bore me but will not spurn me.
As our bus turned left into Bickerton that Friday morning I was tampering proof at the same old font and the same old winding up. Hoping a break, a snap, not a stiff recoil – it would cease seizing me. But I am essay against rigid opposition too true to turn my fortunes against the turning of some momentous cogs. A finger moving back the hands themselves isn’t asking any sense of the hours passing.
I realised the dark fallowed line running east to west was following my doomed journey, from which I should’ve turned back, but squirmed against another empty destiny I collided winglike and repeated the beatings I should know I would get. I gathered the clouds around my head and tucked them as a scarf about my leaden gaze, and attempted to forget the melancholy wool engendered there, as we forged ahead once more.
In every repeated phrase I pick up another empty divided cell and stand further back flapping about the dusty curtailed remnant – so warm, but so threatening all you ladies with empty eyeballs and summary smiles. For ever red stained lip there is more design in forethought than I, in foolish grin, could envisage.