20-6-2021: Day 10
Red, red wine hangover lingering in the early hours of Father’s Day as I detox myself with a brew and play a little Bach on the stereo. A pointed time for reflection I feel, going out to all those father’s out there bossing it, toughing it, and chiefly winging it, when it comes to raising kids in this modern age.
It’s my fourteenth year as a father, and it’s been no leafy amble through the avenues of Cypress trees. Blood, sweat, tears and grit. An old friend recently showed a polaroid snap of my family from back in the day. I looked like the walking dead. A shadow of a man. A year or so out of time locked-up in state institutions. It was to be another twelve before I regained some levity over my life.
So, I will be celebrating this Father’s Day with a choice selection box of ales, stouts and beers. ‘Cos I’m worth it. Back to winging it on Monday!
21-6-2021: Day 11
Outside the window it is a damp squib of a solstice day, drizzle hanging and blowing on the breeze. Inside my soul a deep malaise is ploughing steadily to the surface of my consciousness. No chemical induced all-nighter pulled at the sacred stone circle of Glastonbury this solstice, just a sad drooping sunset lost behind a murky black-out of a day that feels like Autumn.
So, I take to my bed, to raise the dead and try my hand at a little reiki healing on this gloomy day of days. ‘English Rose’ by the Jam rotates on the playlist, as I think of the lone red rose growing strong in the garden borders. Mind the thorns I think, as I place my hands on the healing zones. And in the distance, the sound of a kick-started hedge strimmer blazes through the inner silence of the moment. A lighter piece of peace, the eternal quest of a restless soul, on this, the longest day of the year.
24-6-2021: Day 14
Up on the top of Mill Hill, the secret gateway to the Sussex Downs, the magpies were diving and swooping from windswept tree to tree. Black and white, with a sliver of metallic blue, I watched them go about their business with a method of madness, as I plonked myself down on the hilltop memorial bench and soaked up the vibes.
I can identify with the magpie, its thirst for shiny trinkets, and eye for cherry picking the gold nuggets from the natural bounty on offer.
Since a youngster I’ve been pick n’ mixing it up: styling myself in fashion-conscious clobber, from the terraces to the modern; creating maestro mixtapes, hand-recorded from ‘Top of the Pop’s’; to picking the bones out of the latest cult novel classic. Always stealing, always sourcing, always sampling. The life of the magpie is exhausting.