I am standing outside millionaire’s mansion. The one with the two stone eagles erected on brickwork gate plinths. The one with the Buddha statue in the bay window. The one at the beating heart of the sleepy town of Shoreham-by-Sea.
And I am in an almighty head funk. Contemplating my mobile phone blowing up on my Full Moon birthday party – hacked by porn bots, African fishermen, and devil-nonce, shifty-shaping paedo’s – as I travel and unravel on the daily commute to work.
Travelling under a dark cloud of doom, carrying a sharp-knife-with-serrated-edge wound, of existential heart ache.
When, like a bolt of electric blue, I spy a black cat with green saucer eyes crossing the road, as I catch the eye of one of the love-of-my-life’s soul sisters.
Hers is a familiar face, known through emotional osmosis, through my earthly partner. And seeing the smile of recognition cross like sunshine across her face, I felt a bee sting of happiness, on the crest of my soul.
We are passing, like lost skippered ships in the night. Exchange a few words. And, passing on, I feel the existential funk lift, as it has done sporadically for the thirteen long years lived through the camera life lens of another.
Over these thirteen long years when I struggled to crack a smile, let alone a deep guttural belly laugh. Over these thirteen long years when my lips cracked from drinking from the muddy polluted waters of life. Over these thirteen long years when my girl and the Shoreham sisterhood lived a life less ordinary for my sorry arse.
There was no freely raving it up in sweaty clubbing establishments – the sisters did that – ‘cos it’s hard to dance with the Devil on your back.
There was no eating in friendly eateries without Herculean tides of paranoia – the sisters did that – ‘cos its hard to taste in the long dark and evil shadows of nightfall.
And there were no day trips to petting farms or make-shift zoo’s – the sisters did that – ‘cos its hard to live with a tiger’s caged and unruly mind near breaking point.
So, the kids were raised, nourished, and hydrated from the purer waters of life as I wandered script-less in the shadowland.
So, the sisters took up the mantle of bringing the party, fun, and gallivanting.
So, the sisters stepped out into the Great Unknown, seeking out adventures in the wild, getting lost on muddy trails down blind forest alleys.
So, the sisters sorted it with endless beach days on scorching hot summers days, with burnt BBQ sausages for the bairns.
So, they flew by the seat of their knickers, always loving, always present, always on point.
Drifting homeward, following the invisible footprints of the black cat, Phosphorescent’s ‘Song for Zula’ pours into my brand-new second-hand, state of the art headphones.
And something about love being a burning thing, as I was left thinking about the hot coals blazing in the shadows of the Shoreham soul sisters.
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