Cake-slices

Day Whatever Plus Twelve, and you set off across the green at the end of the road into the tree-lined suburban epicentre of yet another mini-heatwave. It’s a late start today- quarter to six- and sure enough the old bloke from number 43 is engaged in the consumption of the fortieth Benson and Hedges of the day at his clockwork-regular station on the green’s single black-metal bench, accompanied by his small, white, passively-smoking dog. It’s got to be- what?- twenty-eight degrees in the shade, but, alongside his habitual sour-faced expression, the old bloke is wearing the same nicotine-stained brown-and-white-checked suitjacket that perennially adorns his gaunt frame. Faced with this implacable neighbourly presence your choice is stark and binary: the short, diagonal, shady path past the bench (bringing the necessity of a terse exchange of grunted greetings), or the longer, curved, sun-blasted route around the paved perimeter of the green (in which case you can get away with a quick glance sideways and a raised-hand salute from thirty yards away). The latter option wins hands-down, as indeed it has done every time the choice has presented itself since Day One. You’re as much of a creature of habit as he is.

Off the main drag and heading down Woodsmoor Lane, passing a semi-detached residence where another socially-distant familial visit is reaching its concluding scene. A polo-shirted dad and his young flowery-dressed daughter half-obscured in the porch; their smartly-bloused visitor- the man’s sister?- backing off out of the driveway. ‘Bye-bye, Angela!’, shouts the girl, bravely, but there are tears welling up behind the voice. Her dad, mid-wave, rejoins with encouragement: ‘That’s right love- we’ll see Angela properly when the germ-germs have gone away’. The woman, a wan smile briefly playing across work-weary features, retreats into a black saloon car and exits, at 20 mph, stage right.

The dwellings along each side of the section of Woodsmoor Lane bordered by the junction with Egerton Road and the beginning of the railway station humpback are served by four wooden telegraph poles of standard height, spaced approximately forty yards apart. A multitude of thin black wires span out from their apexes, each one leading to the drainpipe-corner of an individual residence, and if you stand directly under a pole gazing upwards you will see how their pencil-lines, most of them straight and taut, the occasional one bent and drooped, dissect an imaginary circle of sky into unevenly-proportioned cake-slices. Picking a point at the first pole on which to anchor your revolving view, you carry out an itinerary of the wires attached: seventeen. The count at the successive poles varies, as may be expected, according to the amount of houses in the immediate vicinity of each: eleven, sixteen, then seventeen again; that outriding lowest figure accounted for by the intervention of a crossroads flanked by generously proportioned gardens. At the fourth and final pole, graffiti in black marker pen, scrawled by necessity vertically and upwards, along the curved brow of a slim grey-metal bracket which runs up the pole’s length: ‘Caz is 100% Fit’.

Heading towards the level crossing, past the stretch of terraced houses facing the austere stone wall which guards the grounds of the Grammar School from the vulgarities of The Outside. A spindly and jittery old man emerges from a front doorway, simultaneously climbing astride an even spindlier and more jittery bicycle. Pedal-wobbling towards you, his already-tenuous balance compromised by the necessity of retaining clasped in his right hand a large, plain, white, empty carrier-bag, he essays a cheery greeting: ‘How do!’. It’s a promising beginning, and you consider initiating a bout of social discourse which in the best-case scenario may lead to a robust but informed exchange of views on the timeliness or otherwise of the just-announced relaxation of the governmental rules concerning the gathering of up to six persons within the confines of residential gardens. No sooner however have you returned the opening compliment than the man has spirited himself away, past the Moorland Road junction and into the narrow tree-shadowed avenue heading due East. He might want to bedazzle you with his air of mystery, but you’ve been round this block a few times and you know precisely where he’s headed: off to the Co-op on the A6 for his tea, or you’re the Archbishop of Canterbury.

Onto cheery Egerton Road. Peering upwards in response to a sharp, rustling commotion overhead, you espy a sparring pair of middleweight pigeons, embarking on a championship bout, scheduled for twelve rounds of three minutes each, under Marquis of Queensbury Rules. An exchange of uncomplicated wing-to-wing combat ensues, which while falling short of the rarified tastes of the purist, holds more than adequate sporting drama to retain the interest of the passing amateur. An evenly-contested affair seems decent odds to go the full distance, until midway through Round Four the darker-winged pigeon fighting out of the left-hand corner unleashes an inelegant but devastating swirling right hook which sends his adversary scuttering backwards in mid-air into the outer branches of an adjacent tree, where he succumbs to a technical knock-out on a Count of Eight.

Heading back over the Davenport railway bridge, you cast a furtive glance across the now-shadow-spattered green and, seeing that the bloke with the checked brown suitjacket and the plain white dog has made his clockwork-regular evening departure from the scene, you take the short, straight, diagonal route home. You’re glad of the shade; we may have reached the summertime pigeon-fighting hour of dusk, but there’s some cruel heat left in the day. This bout could still go on a while, yet- and if it ends on a split-decision, you wouldn’t be surprised.

Comments

[Abigail Schoneboom]

Wow, my absolute favourite part is the telegraph poles -- I call for even more street furniture! A triumph, wor Jonathan! Your piece has inspired me to count the lines coming cake-like from the telegraph pole outside our window and it is a startling 24! Is this too many?

[Jonathan]

It's certainly on the high side Abby, but I can tell you that the telegraph poles on the closely terraced section of Moorland Road serve an average of 25 houses each- with the one at the Grammar School end being attached to a quite astonishing 30. Yes you read it right!

Further revelations on the streetfurniture of our chosen patch of SK2 will surely follow, as and when we have them.

[Dr. Kenneth Noisewater]

I think getting more blogging done will make me appreciate the little things. You have lots of details packed into this Covid experience to the point where it's like you can draw more meaning from it. Good stuff.