A lesson learned there. Maybe go with the feeling next time. Rather than waiting for Life to kick me in the ass.
December 20th I deleted my blog. It was partly motivated by a desire to be free from it, a sense once again of the weight of all those words, and partly by an ex asking me not to use her real name. Getting rid of it was easy and I haven’t really missed it. Yet here I am again. I need someone to talk to. I don’t have anyone in the real world. And writing in my blog has always done wonderful things for me.
December 21st I was still feeling joy. It’s remarkable to look back and realise how quickly it all turned to shit.
A number of things happened. One is that uni broke up and all the little things I do to keep me busy ended. Buildings locked so no more internet. Football and squash players gone home for their snuggly little Christmases in teenage bedrooms so no more running around and sweating or organising referees and league tables. Then the weather got bad and my own refereeing games got cancelled. Suddenly, I had nothing. Nothing except a pretty much out of nowhere feeling of intense restlessness and frustration with the place I was in.
December 22nd I was supposed to referee a game. I’d wanted to get out of Leeds a few days before but held on for it, and for only that. Then it got cancelled on the morning. I’d had enough: half an hour later I was out of the house and on a bus to London . The rain poured down grizzly and grey. But 48 hours of restless funk began to evaporate. In fact, much as I say I hate London , a feeling of excitement and gladness came over me as we raced down that dreary old strip of rain-lashed M1.
Movement. Motion. Something happening.
Anything.
Too much stagnation and sameness in this lovely old Leeds .
I had a few days there. Saw some good friends. Stayed the night of the 23rd at a new friend’s and in the morning got an invitation from his dad to do Christmas there.
Christmas: always so pesky and annoying, getting in the way of things. But it had to be traversed.
Christmas with this family I hardly knew. I wasn’t so sure. I stuck it on a list of five other things and the dice said “go with it.” I told the dad I’d love to take him up on his offer. He said he’d better check with the wife.
Dads, of course, being boys, just do everything happy-go-lucky and imagine that everything’s fine and groovy.
Wives, on the other hand…
It was 3pm on Christmas Eve. I made up another list of six varied options – two of which said to go back to Yorkshire (and one of those being to go and ask a certain girl to marry me, placed there by my friend) – and the dice chose “go to the M4 and hitch.” I had the idea of Bath or Glastonbury in mind, perhaps splash out on a B&B and see in Christmas that way, treating myself and being nice and lonesome and comfortable.
I walked up along the Thames with my friend – my good friend – and we said goodbye in Hammersmith.
I stood by the now dark road and stuck out my thumb.
Christmas Eve. At night. Would the old magic really work?
I got a ride pretty quick – maybe twenty minutes or so – and he said he was going up the M40 a little ways, turning off near Beaconsfield . I figured I’d just go wherever he was going, and instantly gave up my ideas of Glastonbury . What the hell. Too much thinking. Just surrender to the road.
And anyways, wasn’t he taking me towards Oxford , where I have a few good friends? Maybe drop in on them. A little pre-Christmas surprise.
But, again, even though I was pointed right towards my imagined destination, the road had other ideas. The next guy – ‘bout a ten minute wait – was veering off up towards Birmingham . Ah well, might as well go with him. He was an interesting chap. Talks about spontaneous van trips around Morocco . Ideas about the true nature of reality. It was a fun two hour ride. And I trusted the road.
He dropped me off in a little town called Droitwich. I’d heard of Droitwich. I was down with that.
“Listen,” he says, “my family’s pretty conservative, and what with there being little ones around now I’m not sure they’ll go for it, but if you want to hang here for a bit I’ll see if they’ll be up for you coming and staying the night.”
Groovy, I says, and go off for a little walk around Droitwich. Grab a bag of chips. And await his promised text.
“Like I thought, they’re too conservative for that. Sorry. Hope it works out.”
Oh well. I’m accepting. I feel rested where I am and pretty much done with the urge to move on. It’s getting on for eight o’clock. Feeling a little tired. Seen a big lighted-up star on a high hill. Think I’ll walk up to that.
By the time I’ve done that, and returned to the town, it’s more like nine.
I sit on a bench and ponder. Toss a coin see if I should go back to the road. Coin says walk in the opposite direction.
Strange, I think, but you can’t question the coin.
‘Cept there’s nothing up that way. And so I toss again and coin says, keep walking.
After a while I pass a Methodist church. They’ve got midnight mass on but not open yet. Maybe I’ll come back if nothing else occurs.
And then a little ways up the road I come to a Catholic church, and its lights are on and its doors I open. I head on in. Nobody around but it’s warm and the vibe is good.
I sit down and have a good long meditate. After an hour or so people start to come in. I have little urge to sort out my situation and figure I might as well just stay there. Do the service. Marvel at the weird antics of the berobed priests and altar boys. Swinging incense and bowing to inanimate objects and raising things up and reading strange old words penned by long-dead Jews.
Towards the end I figure I’ll go up to a priest and ask him if I can stay the night in the church. Make out I’m on some kind of pilgrimage or something.
And even in the formation of the question I’m composing rebukes at his imagined answers, the impossibility of such a thing in this day and age. The hardness of their hearts. But still I resolve to ask.
Everyone leaves and I sit there thinking about all this and saying to God, I trust, this persevering in the uncertainty is a statement of my trust, and occasionally looking down at coins and the coins say, not now.
The priests all disappear. The coin says, don’t ask, leave the church. And into the dark cold night I exit, getting on for half an hour after midnight, a light rain falling.
Still, I smile. I trust. Maybe I’ll walk around all night, or sit shivering in a bus shelter, but I don’t mind. I’m sanguine.
I walk back on into town. Past the Methodist church. The very last people are leaving there and a grey-haired chap is locking up.
I wonder if maybe he’ll let me crash in there. I go ask him if he knows a place where I can find shelter. He says he doesn’t have the authority to let me stay in the church – how wonderful that he immediately thought of it – but…just hold on a second…
He goes to a car and has a quick word with the last departing people. He comes back and tells me there’s maybe a shelter in Worcester , do you know where Worcester is?
I do, I say, it’s about seven miles that way.
Come on, he says, I’ll give you a ride.
I climb into his car and off we go. I’m feeling grateful and glad. I’ve stayed in homeless shelters before. I’m okay with that.
And then about a minute into our journey he says – tell you what, why don’t you just stay at mine? I’ll not be there tonight – I’m staying with family – so the house is empty. But you seem like a decent sort.
He u-turns the car and pretty soon we’re at his place and he’s showing me where the tea is and the cereal and you can’t imagine how blown away I am by this. I’ve been peaceful and accepting and not really said all that much, just going with the flow and feeling sort of humble, and here is this guy giving me the keys to his house and all he’s worried about is whether there’s any milk for me in the morning.
I can’t fathom it. I had to shake my head again just now as I typed it.
He set me up a bed. Said he’d be back in the morning but if I was gone just to pull the door shut behind me. And then left me to it.
When he’d gone, I cried. I shuddered with feeling and said, oh God, why do you love me so much? I couldn’t contemplate it. That I’d been on the verge of a cold and uncomfortable Christmas Eve. That I’d sat in that Catholic church calmly accepting my fate, as a show of faith. And that I was now here, inside, safe and warm thanks to the kindness of a trusting stranger.
In England . Somewhere near Birmingham . After midnight. On Christmas morn.
Humbled. Belovéd. Taken care of.
I loved my life that night. Everything about it seemed worth it.
He came back in the morning and made sure I’d had something to eat and a cup of tea. Asked me what I wanted to do and I said I’d probably head back to the road. He was on his way to open up the church for the Christmas morning service and I asked if I could go to that instead. Why not? No hurry to get anywhere. No idea of anywhere to go. And seemed sort of right to go there, give my thanks.
I sat tucked away in the back corner and breathed some while the odd person entered in, invariably saying hello and shaking my hand with a smile. A nice bunch, these Methodists. Much more friendly and less austere than the Catholics.
Pretty soon the church was full – absolutely packed to the rafters – and the service began.
I sang with gusto all the old Christmas favourites and stood up and sat down in all the right places. On occasion the woman next to me asked me a question, what my name was, that sort of thing. Her husband was sat in the row in front; when they’d entered I’d offered to swap seats but she just smiled and said she saw enough of him at home, stay where you are.
At the end of the service she asked me what I was doing for Christmas, what I was doing in Droitwich.
I said I didn’t know, that I had no plans, was just passing through.
She said, well why don’t you come to ours? It’s a bit of a mad house. But if you can put up with that you’d be welcome.
She introduced me to her mum. Brother. Sister. Husband. Some kids ran around. They all smiled and were friendly and welcoming and laidback. And just like that I was on my way to some strangers’ house for Christmas dinner.
Oh, they were a lovely bunch, and we chatted lovely and the dinner was lovely too. Laughed a lot. Talked about interesting things. I even pulled out one of my terrible cracker-esque jokes.
Great times. Great people. And…
Once again I’m humbled and moved to contemplate the fortune I’ve had bestowed upon me. Life is good. People are good. God is great. And fun too.
And I notice, just as I type that, how much more truthful and good-feeling it is to say “God is ggggreat” – such as if one were talking about really good sex or a fantastic holiday – than the solemn way I always imagined that phrase ought to be said.
I guess it’s not so easy to put inflection and true meaning into the typed or written word.
That’s why we have adverbs like “fuckin’.”
I left those guys, again, after dark. One of the husbands gave me a lift to a roundabout and we shook hands all hearty and glad. In my bag, a bunch more food, just in case. In my heart…well, you get the picture.
And once more, on Christmas Day, in modern world England , in the inky dark of night, I stuck out my thumb. ‘Cept this time I had a destination in mind. Ex was on a canal boat with her parents near Coventry . That wasn’t so far away. I made it in a couple of rides and the last guy took me ten miles out of his way. Him and his girlfriend had just spontaneously driven to Mount Snowdon
I got to the canal boat around seven. I’d ascertained its location by text – she’d first invited me when I was by the M4 in Hammersmith – and walked the last mile or so in the mud and dark gleefully giggling at this odd quest to search out a boat called Mandarin somewhere near Bridge 75. I was all eager to share my miraculous Christmas tales but also had told them I wasn’t going to be making it after all. Surprise, you know.
I saw the painted name and the lights. Heard voices I recognised. Tapped on the window and stood waiting, all smiles.
Oh, did they laugh to see me. What fun, to thumb it to a boat on a canal in the middle of nowhere, all on Christmas Day night – and just in time for another dinner too.
And so that was my Christmas. And that’s probably where my tales of gladness ends.
I dunno…maybe I shouldn’t have even gone to that boat. Going to the past and kind of safe plans instead of the joyous and unknown future, out on a limb but landing always soft and cared for and amazed.
No, instead we’d been walking in mud. Hadn’t occurred to him that for us to catch him up he’d have to stop at some point. The simple maths of one object moving faster than another.
Despite mind-efforts, my mood was not good.
Then I was supposed to be off to Ludlow , just back the other side of Droitwich, for another pre-planned invitation to see my good friends from Kent in their family lair. But dad took so long to get things together – an offered ride to the highway – by the time we were ready to leave it was dark and raining and I could no longer be arsed. What a waste of a day! And why so much easier out on the road with a thumb in the company of strangers?
But that’s what it was.
Things have been pretty much pants ever since.
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