You can't buy this stuff
Experienced the worst weekend of work in my life. With Air Canada unwilling to pay overtime to cover vacation and sickness, four men were left doing eight men's work. The air was humid, the work was constant and the management kept on our backs, the arrogant fucks. I felt like Roy Scheider in Jaws when he utters the line "How bout chummin' summa this shit?"
I can't complain really. I came home, had a long cool shower, pulled on some fresh clothes, turned on the fan and then tucked into a barbeque meal that Dad made for us. The quality of his culinary skills is something we almost take for granted, although the coolness of his cooking as counterbalanced by his choice of sports casual clothing that would have Alan Partridge's seal of approval. I responded for Father's Day by buying him some German beer. He seemed to appreciate it and we both got rather tipsy as the night progressed, with the breeze zipping through the living room, the smell of honeysuckle procured from the garden, the distant sound of cars on the motorway. When I was young, maybe five or six, we lived in a flat near the same motorway. When you looked out of the window, to the right, there was quite a clearing which held beautiful sunsets, the sky exploding into several million shades of orange and scarlet. Although now I realise the sound of the cars came from the left of the flat, I always imagined them to be coming from beyond the sunset, like life itself was beyond the sunset. Like it represented the future or something. Some faraway place.
Last night, I could just about make out the sound of the traffic and it brought all the memories back from living at that age in that flat. Things which happened there. Playing with my toy cars in the hallway, burning my lip on a spoon after dipping it in boiling water, Christmases spent there (including one where my parents bought me a snooker table - the surprise/delight/confusion on my face is thankfully saved to a photograph. I can almost smell the scent of fake baize and cheap wood when I see the picture. Oh, and my best friend Jason living next door. The time when his brother got trapped in a clothing closet and the fire brigade had to come round. I can also remember one particularly violent thunderstorm where the two families were walking in and out of each other's homes, us kids whooping and screaming as each flash of lightning threatened the imminent growl of the sky, each time increasing in intensity in line with the volume of our scared little voices.
It was just great.
I can't complain really. I came home, had a long cool shower, pulled on some fresh clothes, turned on the fan and then tucked into a barbeque meal that Dad made for us. The quality of his culinary skills is something we almost take for granted, although the coolness of his cooking as counterbalanced by his choice of sports casual clothing that would have Alan Partridge's seal of approval. I responded for Father's Day by buying him some German beer. He seemed to appreciate it and we both got rather tipsy as the night progressed, with the breeze zipping through the living room, the smell of honeysuckle procured from the garden, the distant sound of cars on the motorway. When I was young, maybe five or six, we lived in a flat near the same motorway. When you looked out of the window, to the right, there was quite a clearing which held beautiful sunsets, the sky exploding into several million shades of orange and scarlet. Although now I realise the sound of the cars came from the left of the flat, I always imagined them to be coming from beyond the sunset, like life itself was beyond the sunset. Like it represented the future or something. Some faraway place.
Last night, I could just about make out the sound of the traffic and it brought all the memories back from living at that age in that flat. Things which happened there. Playing with my toy cars in the hallway, burning my lip on a spoon after dipping it in boiling water, Christmases spent there (including one where my parents bought me a snooker table - the surprise/delight/confusion on my face is thankfully saved to a photograph. I can almost smell the scent of fake baize and cheap wood when I see the picture. Oh, and my best friend Jason living next door. The time when his brother got trapped in a clothing closet and the fire brigade had to come round. I can also remember one particularly violent thunderstorm where the two families were walking in and out of each other's homes, us kids whooping and screaming as each flash of lightning threatened the imminent growl of the sky, each time increasing in intensity in line with the volume of our scared little voices.
It was just great.