In
the Dead of the Night
By
Dominic Horton
Boxing
Day dealt me a right hook as by the evening I felt like a zombie with
little conversation or life left in me by the time that I shuffled
into the Flagon & Gorses early evening. The afternoon was
pleasant enough, a run over the woods followed by a trip to the
social club with my dear son Kenteke to watch our beloved Aston
Villa, who were playing away at Swansea: although Villa lost they
played well and it was a good game, so we enjoyed it. There was thick
snow at the club in Blackheath and it was very festive but back home,
a mile down the hill in Halesowen, there was virtually no snow at
all. It is amazing how each small area seems to have its own little
micro climate. Furnace Hill, where my Codger Mansion dwelling is
situated, is consistently colder than the Dudley Road around the
corner and it can often be covered with a thick frost while adjoining
roads have none. There is often a discernible change in temperature
when you turn the corner at the bottom of Furnace Hill past the
chippy and enter Dudley Road. Mind you that might just be the heat
off the deep fat fryer.
 |
| Marley's Ghost, by request of Toby In-Tents. |
Anyway,
after getting home from the club I didn't want to linger around
Codger Mansions so instead of killing time until later in the evening
I had a quick bowl of home made soup (tomato and lentil) and made
haste for the Flagon & Gorses. It was very quiet in the pub and
there were only few people in there and most of those were day
trippers in Christmas jumpers and not regular Flagon inmates. I
spotted Clawdia sitting alone, and not working behind the bar for
once, but enjoying a pint, looking like an impish garden gnome with
her woolly hat on, so I joined her for a natter.
Poor
Clawdia had to carry the conversation though, as I seemed to have
nothing to say for myself, as I felt flatter than a witches t*t. All
the eating and drinking and slothing about on Christmas Day had taken
its toll and left me in a nullified and languid state and I was
struggling to raise my game to drag myself back into the land of the
living. I was hoping that a bustling and lively atmosphere in the
Flagon would give me the fillip that I needed but as I had ventured
out too early the atmosphere in the pub was on the sedate side; not
even the Pirate was around to ruffle my feathers.
After
half an hour or so even Clawdia bid me adieu and abandoned me,
leaving me to sit and stew in my own fats. Every time the latch went
on the pub door I thought that the likes of Neddy Lachouffe, Dick the
Hook or Theo Atrical would pitch up to entertain me, but to no avail;
mostly the people entering the pub were drinkers who had popped
outside into the inclement weather for a fag. It is a rarity that
there is no-one for me to talk to in the Flagon but that was the
position I was in, on Boxing Day of all days. And I couldn't even
have a read of the newspaper as I had forgotten my glasses.
 |
| An urban fox. |
I
knew that the cavalry would be arriving in an hour or so, in the form
of Chrissy the Gent, but I couldn't hold out that long and in a fit
of lugubriousness I decided to cut my losses and skulk back to Codger
Mansions where at least I had a pork pie awaiting me with open arms.
I complemented the pork pie with pickled onions and a film, The
Wrestler, starring Mickey Rourke as an ageing professional
wrestler who struggles on performing, despite suffering from ill
health. I was delighted when I saw that the film was on as I had
long wanted to see it. But once the film had started it dawned on me
that I had actually seen it before and although it is a good movie my
enthusiasm to watch it drained away. I was left with only one option
for the rest of the evening – an early night. I joined Alfie the
teddy and I quickly nodded off and fortunately I didn't have my
reoccurring nightmare, so the phantasm who haunts my dreams must have
secured some time off for Christmas. But like Arnold Schwarzenegger
in The Terminator, he'll be back.
I
awoke in the middle of the night needing a trip to the little boy's
room and it quickly became apparent on my return to bed that sleep
had fled and wouldn't be back anytime soon. I lay in bed but I was
wide awake and restless and it reminded me of a line spoken by
Marley's Ghost in Dickens' A Christmas Carol: “I
cannot rest, I cannot stay, I cannot linger anywhere.” After a
while I had soon had enough of starring at the ceiling so I decided
to do something useful. I got up and made a batch of soup with left
over vegetables and meat from Christmas dinner that I had pilfered
off my Mother. The soup turned out to be pretty decent, if not a
little rich. But any soup containing roast potatoes and pigs in
blankets is hardly going to be a light and airy number.
 |
| The ESSO petrol station, Bromsgrove Road, Halesowen. |
Once
I had made the soup it was still only just past 0300 hours and as I
felt a bit on the dolorous side I decided to go for a long walk. In
her harrowing but ultimately heart warming book Shoot the
Damn Dog: A Memoir of Depression Sally Brampton cites
walking as one of the key factors that helps her combat the illness
and getting your walking boots on to improve well being is a very
useful tool indeed.
Tramping
around the streets of Halesowen in the middle of the night it
was surprising just how many vehicles were on the road
and not just commercial lorries and ambulances etc. but regular cars
too. Some households had lights on and I wondered if the occupants
were still up watching television and enjoying Christmas cheer or had
they got out of bed in the middle of the night to make soup out of
the Christmas dinner left overs?
I
spotted a fox, who was ferreting around someone's front garden trying
to get his fangs on a few scraps of food from the rubbish bins. The
fox spotted me and briefly went back to his savaging but
then thought better of it and he bolted off into the night,
pausing briefly after a hundred yards or so to look back at me. I
love to see a fox as they are synonymous with the night,
the dark, the secret, secluded world that they inhabit. Foxes allude
to other mythical creatures, goblins, trolls, werewolves and shadow
people. The fox knows the way to other magical worlds and universes
and he could lead you to the devil himself if you ever needed to find
him.
 |
| Sally Brampton |
The
one magical world that the fox didn't lead me to was the 24 hour
petrol station on the Bromsgrove Road. As ESSO have recently taken
over the petrol station it is all shiny, gleaming and new and when I
walked past it it looked like a glistening, bright oasis of life in
the dead of the night, like a mini Las Vegas glowing out from the
dark. But without the Elvis impersonators. I thought about popping in
to buy a Scotch egg, just to make contact with another human being,
even if it would have been through a glass partition, but I decided
that I had eaten enough rich food over the last two days so I carried
on walking.
With
it being nippy outside I was glad to get back into the warmth of
Codger Mansions at the end of the walk and as it was past 0500 hours
morning had officially started so it was time for a restorative
coffee and a banana for sustenance. I am glad that I didn't have the
Scotch egg as I felt the stirrings of the beginning of gout in the
ball of my left toe, so I flushed it out with pints of water before
it had time to settle and do it's evil work. And talking of evil work
I thought that I might as well get to work on this week's edition
of Lowlife before apathy set in to replace the gout.
And above is the result; in terms of a result you would probably
classify this week's offering as a 0-0 draw – fairly boring but at
least there is a point (if you look hard enough.)
©
Dominic Horton, December 2014.
Lowlife
is dedicated to the memory of the late Jonathan Rendall
Email:
lordhofr@gmail.com
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