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10th April 2023
“That was the week that wasn’t”
Me, Myself and I
“Hey you, out there in the cold
Getting lonely, getting old
Can you feel me?
Hey you, standing in the aisles
With itchy feet and fading smiles
Can you feel me?
Hey you, don’t help them to bury the light
Don’t give in without a fight”
“Hey You” by Pink Floyd
(songwriting credit — Roger Waters)
It’s an anniversary today, making this an even more painful Monday than a Monday usually is. Last Monday was joyous, a cinema trip with my two favourite people in all the world and the same two people who are doing the exact same trip today. I’m betting the younger of these two favourite people is having a riot of fun and I’m made up for them both. I had a choice between the ridiculous antics of a vengeful hitman or the colourful antics of a couple of cartoonish Italian plumbers and so I chose wisely, but the silicon chip inside my head has switched to overload today and I don’t like this particular Monday. I’m thinking of a selfless lady, Friday nights in the cold of a railway station and the laughter and light of someone I was incredibly lucky to know and love as a sister.
Yesterday was a doozy as I went full pelt into three articles that simply had to be written. The film article turned out exactly how I planned it to be as I composed it inside my mind. It’s a film I can’t stop thinking about, which is always a good sign, as is the composition of an article that could have been twice the length considering the copious notes I made when watching it, but I wrapped it in half the length with twice the quality. Then it was a barnstorming game of football that my beloved team should have lost and could have won before I defeated my beautiful son at numerous games of “Uno” as we watched a film together and before I knew it, it was the back nine at Augusta and a Spaniard was defeating both the field and my favourite golf course in all the world to claim the coveted Green Jacket of a Master.
Saturday aged like a fine wine after convincing myself that nothing ridiculous or untoward was going to happen and only enjoyment would follow by taking a short journey to neighbouring Shrewsbury for a stroll beside the River Severn.
I was right of course, but you try telling that to the demon lurking on my shoulder.
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With the prospect of breakfast beside the River Severn and a trip to the “Old Fashioned Sweet Shop”, it was an easy sell for me to persuade my son to accompany me on my favourite walk of all through the historic and picturesque town of Ironbridge as Easter arrived with some pleasant sunshine on Friday. He was treated like a King by the genial owner as always and swooned over by the lovely ladies always in residence at the local chip-shop before we returned to our little world to hang out together.
Another favourite day of the week for sure.
Distracted and perturbed, I spent Thursday pruning, shearing and spring cleaning a small garden back into an acceptably beautiful bloom for the coming Summer. I thought of my sister and my mum as well as two other ladies who shall remain nameless but I jotted down several aide memoirs to our separate times together, all of which remain in my notebook and will not appear here. They’re amusing in my mind and I guess that’s where they’ll stay. In between admiring my handiwork and running to the kitchen to furiously jot down notes in a notebook that I’ll probably never use, I watched two trains pass each other, on the hour, every hour, a short distance from the garden. Each time, I thought of my son.
Wednesday was spent with my son so, needless to say, it was a glorious day.
With a keen eye on the approaching Easter weather I knew Tuesday would be the sunshine before the rain ahead of the continued sunshine later in the week, so I treated myself to an elongated river stroll on this day. I’ve walked along the river from Coalbrookdale through Ironbridge and Jackfield through to Coalport many times but the sun was out and the sky was blue and well, as I’m sure you will heartily agree, there are already far too many song lyrics quoted for one article here already.
And Monday was chapter four in the gloriously ridiculous over the top story of hit man “John Wick” at the cinema with my two favourite people in all the world and all told, it hasn’t been a bad week that wasn’t.
So why the melancholy?
Because I miss talking to those ladies I’ve previously mentioned as well as the two that will remain nameless and the man who was so, so different when they knew him, loved him, and at his very best. I miss my son although he was here with me less than 24 hours ago and I’ll be seeing him for breakfast again in less than 12 hours from now. If things were different and he was like me when I was his age, I’d barely see him at all, yet I see him every other day and it’s the light of my life.
The irony isn’t lost on me and neither is the immense gratitude.
I just despise my own company more and more but I have nothing to offer anyone except my sadness and believe me, that’s a tough sell, regardless of whether you’re roguishly handsome or not. The irony, again, is that I’m not alone for most of the time but when I am, it’s me, myself and I and I’m deeply fucking alone.
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So to today, and when I had planned to formulate a few rough chapters of my already written book I have instead prevaricated and done everything and anything possible not to do so. What would be the point, asks that demon on my shoulder, before chirping in with some obscene expletives and no-one in their right mind would even consider reading my book. It’ll never be published he might have said and anyway, even if it was, who’s to say anyone would be interested in buying it? If I told you what else he said you’d probably think me quite mad.
The final irony is that my book is written and/or a longer book will continue to be written until the end of May, so the hard yards have been covered, the downhill slope is ready and the gravy train is rolling along the tracks. But no-one will be interested in publishing it let alone reading or buying it, just like no-one is interested in reading about a stroll along the River Severn in Shrewsbury or that I’ve been published once again in a football fanzine or that my spoiler free review of a film describes a hex descending on an innocent family in an art house horror that sent chills through me akin to Kubrick’s “The Shining”.
All work and no play makes Stephen a very dull boy indeed.
And he doesn’t know what to do with himself.
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As you’re about to discover, I self-published the book under discussion above, and many more since. Bit of a vinegar sour one this eh? Bet you can’t wait to buy the book this article is in now!
“That was the week that wasn’t” is a lucky 10th chapter inside Act 3 of “At the end of a Storm”. You can treat yourself via the link below if you wish or to any number of future Pulitzer Prize winners contained within my cave of literary delights on Amazon:
"At the end of a Storm" - link to Amazon
"The Essential Film Reviews Collection" - link to Amazon
Thanks for reading. I hope this message in a bottle in The Matrix finds you well, prospering, and the right way up in an upside down world.