standing in my grandparents'
dining room with a dirty cup of coffee in hand i look hard at
a triumphant framed photo of my kid brother posed in a blue football
kit from his brief flirtation with team sports four years ago,
brazenly declaring its lies about the family's sporting legacy.
next to it stands a shifty-looking 18 year old in naval uniform
- my cousin who jumped ship at the first port they put in to -
almost linking arms with a tiny picture of grandad before he went
off to war. behind me sparks are flying as dad tries to get his
parents to move off the moors and into a home. he is worried because
they don't have a microwave. i'm tired and can't keep my eyes
open.
later on in his car i'm writing this with the climate control
maintaining a steady 16°C inside. his car is expensive and
despite the fact that we are burning up mercedes at 120, belle
& sebastian is still playing as clearly as it does at home.
there is an unpleasant air in the car because i have told him
that i don't like the sterilised smell of the air conditioning,
and he is telling me about all the things going wrong at work.
i don't hold this against him, everyone has to offload on someone.
as i continue writing and he continues talking, i reflect that
you never know where you're going to end up until you get there,
and by that point you can't conceive of there ever being any other
way to be.
