field.
Walk across the field and into the trees and you’re surrounded by the drooping branches. The sun can still stream through the gap at the top of the trees so it’s still light, but the space below is just enough so that you can sit down in the middle but not see outside.
And that is where, aged 17 for the first time, and 18 and 19 after that, I used to sit and get stoned and read comics.
So one day after I’d got home from work and it was warm and sunny outside I sat and tried to roll a joint to accompany
Sandman
. I’d done it loads of times before, but for some reason this day my hands weren’t working and I kept spilling tobacco and ripping the papers and making a complete twat of it every time I tried. So I went upstairs and asked my brother to help. I left him my hash and tobacco and papers and he rolled me a small and neat little joint. Then I went downstairs, shouted goodbye to my Dad, I’d be back later, I was going to the lake, and off I went.
The walk takes about forty minutes, and I never rushed it. Once I got there I unfolded my tiny little blanket that I’d bought from the pound shop and sat on the little bit of sunny space in the middle of the trees. I flipped open
A Game of You
and put my hand in my pocket to retrieve the joint.
Except it wasn’t there.
That was a bit annoying, but not the end of the world. I was a bit pissed off that I’d managed to lose it along the way and wondered where I’d dropped it. Oh well. It was fine like this. I’d stay and read and not get stoned for
A Game of You
. You don’t need to, anyway.
After an hour or so when it wasn’t so warm anymore, I got up, folded my Poundland blanket up, popped my comic under my arm and headed home.
I arrived home and shouted to Dad that I was back. He didn’t respond. I went and sat on the bench in the garden and after a few minutes Dad appeared, clocked me, said ‘Hello, Flower,’ (yes, my Dad calls me Flower) and wandered up the garden to the greenhouse.
Then my brother came downstairs.
‘You’re fucking lucky that I don’t think you’re a cunt,’ he said.
I looked at him.
‘Stoned?’ he asked.
I shook my head. ‘I think I dropped it somewhere. When I got to the trees it had gone. Bit annoying.’
My brother nodded his head. ‘You didn’t drop it. You left it on the kitchen table. Dad found it.’
Fuck.
‘Fuck. Did he think it was yours?’
‘Of course he thought it was mine. He came upstairs to bollock me about it.’
‘Shit. What did you say?’
My brother peered up the garden. Dad was still in the greenhouse, looking pretty intently at the tomato plants. Nothing unusual there. He fucking loved the greenhouse; the tomato plants especially, but also the chillies and artichokes and various herbs he had potted on the tables and on the stone floors underneath.
‘He came upstairs and asked if I’d left a cigarette on the table. I knew you, you fucking idiot, must’ve left your joint on the table on the way out. I told him it was mine and then he kind of laughed at me. Said that he knew it wasn’t just a cigarette, and did I think he was stupid.’
‘Oh fuck.’
‘Yeah, fuck. And when I said it was just a cigarette he said to me, “It was not just a cigarette, and the reason I know that it was not just a cigarette is because I smoked it.”’
We both looked down at the greenhouse again. Dad was still looking at the tomato plants, and now we could see quite clearly that he was stoned off his tits.
That evening was great. Dad got really hungry and cooked us all a feast and we watched
Indiana Jones
.
My Dad never bollocked me or my brother for smoking, in fact, now I think about it. He never really told us not to do anything.
There’s not really a point to this story. I’m just thinking about my Dad and wishing for a day like that again.
The Princess Bride
In my second year of university I got glandular fever.
It started with me going to bed at 6pm because I felt a bit tired, and
Walk across the field and into the trees and you’re surrounded by the drooping branches. The sun can still stream through the gap at the top of the trees so it’s still light, but the space below is just enough so that you can sit down in the middle but not see outside.
And that is where, aged 17 for the first time, and 18 and 19 after that, I used to sit and get stoned and read comics.
So one day after I’d got home from work and it was warm and sunny outside I sat and tried to roll a joint to accompany
Sandman
. I’d done it loads of times before, but for some reason this day my hands weren’t working and I kept spilling tobacco and ripping the papers and making a complete twat of it every time I tried. So I went upstairs and asked my brother to help. I left him my hash and tobacco and papers and he rolled me a small and neat little joint. Then I went downstairs, shouted goodbye to my Dad, I’d be back later, I was going to the lake, and off I went.
The walk takes about forty minutes, and I never rushed it. Once I got there I unfolded my tiny little blanket that I’d bought from the pound shop and sat on the little bit of sunny space in the middle of the trees. I flipped open
A Game of You
and put my hand in my pocket to retrieve the joint.
Except it wasn’t there.
That was a bit annoying, but not the end of the world. I was a bit pissed off that I’d managed to lose it along the way and wondered where I’d dropped it. Oh well. It was fine like this. I’d stay and read and not get stoned for
A Game of You
. You don’t need to, anyway.
After an hour or so when it wasn’t so warm anymore, I got up, folded my Poundland blanket up, popped my comic under my arm and headed home.
I arrived home and shouted to Dad that I was back. He didn’t respond. I went and sat on the bench in the garden and after a few minutes Dad appeared, clocked me, said ‘Hello, Flower,’ (yes, my Dad calls me Flower) and wandered up the garden to the greenhouse.
Then my brother came downstairs.
‘You’re fucking lucky that I don’t think you’re a cunt,’ he said.
I looked at him.
‘Stoned?’ he asked.
I shook my head. ‘I think I dropped it somewhere. When I got to the trees it had gone. Bit annoying.’
My brother nodded his head. ‘You didn’t drop it. You left it on the kitchen table. Dad found it.’
Fuck.
‘Fuck. Did he think it was yours?’
‘Of course he thought it was mine. He came upstairs to bollock me about it.’
‘Shit. What did you say?’
My brother peered up the garden. Dad was still in the greenhouse, looking pretty intently at the tomato plants. Nothing unusual there. He fucking loved the greenhouse; the tomato plants especially, but also the chillies and artichokes and various herbs he had potted on the tables and on the stone floors underneath.
‘He came upstairs and asked if I’d left a cigarette on the table. I knew you, you fucking idiot, must’ve left your joint on the table on the way out. I told him it was mine and then he kind of laughed at me. Said that he knew it wasn’t just a cigarette, and did I think he was stupid.’
‘Oh fuck.’
‘Yeah, fuck. And when I said it was just a cigarette he said to me, “It was not just a cigarette, and the reason I know that it was not just a cigarette is because I smoked it.”’
We both looked down at the greenhouse again. Dad was still looking at the tomato plants, and now we could see quite clearly that he was stoned off his tits.
That evening was great. Dad got really hungry and cooked us all a feast and we watched
Indiana Jones
.
My Dad never bollocked me or my brother for smoking, in fact, now I think about it. He never really told us not to do anything.
There’s not really a point to this story. I’m just thinking about my Dad and wishing for a day like that again.
The Princess Bride
In my second year of university I got glandular fever.
It started with me going to bed at 6pm because I felt a bit tired, and
Similar Books
It's Always Darkest Before the Fridge Door Opens: Enjoying the Fruits of Middle Age
Phil Callaway, Martha O. Bolton
