|
|
|
|
ESSENTIAL VIEWING SCENE THRO’ A WINDOW
I closed the front door and went and sat down in my favourite armchair. THEY had just left after their weekly visit. I am always glad when the visit is over, as we do not have very much in common except for the blood in our veins. Their visiting me isn’t really necessary for either of us but THEY felt it was best if THEY came over once a week to make sure that I wasn’t becoming decrepit and falling into some sort of mortal decay. THEY said, that as my only remaining relatives, THEY thought it was their duty to come and see me. My own opinion is that the real reason is in the hope that there is something left for them when I eventually cash in my chips. I would have appreciated it much more if THEY had made regular visits before I was left on my own when my partner, of thirty odd years, Paul died eighteen months ago. But no, THEY would never come to visit us when we were together. My favourite chair is placed to the side of the bay window of my living room. From here I can see all the world and his mate as they go past my door. THEY say that I should have nets up at the window so that nobody can see into the room. But why should I? I don’t like nets and anyway I have nothing to hide from anyone in this village where I have lived for the past forty years. In fact the locals always euphemistically referred to Paul and myself as "those two gentlemen sharing" during the years we lived together up at The Hall and never gave us any problems whatsoever. And they are all still just as helpful and friendly to me now that I am on my own.I have a small table set by the side of my chair on which are my telephone and other useful items that I might require during my essential viewing time including my binoculars. These are very useful if I am lucky enough to get any unusual visitors to the bird table in my front garden. As I settled down for my late afternoon viewing THEY were going through the front gate. A quick wave, THEY got into their car and were away in the usual cloud of smoke and fumes. I really must tell them that their exhaust needs fixing. The emissions from it are disgusting. Then again I don’t suppose it’s so noticeable in the town. Jet, my black cross Labrador, pokes his head round the door and, seeing that we are once more on our own, trundles over to the rug in front of the fire and flops down. Sensible dog, he always retreats to his basket in the kitchen when THEY are visiting. I hadn’t been sat for long before old Charlie Knapp went past on his electric operated wheelchair. As usual he slowed down as he passed, saw that I was sat there, and held up his free hand in greeting. I waved back. When I gave up the big house and moved into this bungalow a year or so ago I had toyed with the idea of having a chair like Charlie’s, but THEY had gone on about how much it would cost to have a ramp built up to the front door and also how I would probably have to have internal doorways widened, etc. etc. Seeing Charlie going past today in the spring sunshine I once again realised how much I missed getting out of the house. I know that since I started getting the leg cramps I’m not fit enough to drive a car but I’m not totally immobile. There is nothing wrong with my arms and hands so that I could handle the controls on a motorised chair. I’ll go on the Internet tonight and search for some relevant information on how to go about getting one.Whilst I was ruminating I heard my front gate open and the sound of boys’ voices. As I looked out I was joined at the window by Jet, his tail wagging furiously, it was young Mark Rogers, the son of my daily help, with a friend. Since I had moved into this bungalow he had taken it upon himself to come and take Jet for a run in the nearby park each day after school. l had a reasonably large garden that was Jet escape proof but a walk to the park with him was just something that I couldn’t manage. So both the dog and myself were grateful for the boys’ thoughtfulness. Mark had the key that I had let his mother have so there was no need for me to get up to let them in. They came in, said hello, put Jet on his lead, grabbed a doggie clean-up bag from the box by the door, and, with a "see you later", were off with Jet going as fast as he could drag them. I watched them go off down the road in the direction of the park knowing it would be at least half an hour or so before they returned.I settled back and watched the world. Several people passed by; most of whom I knew and they waved and I waved back. When the weather was warmer, and I had the windows open, the ones that I knew more intimately would often stop and pass the time of day with me and let me know the local gossip. But today wasn’t warm enough for open windows so it was just a wave of acknowledgement. I must have dozed off for the next thing that I heard was the roar of a car engine. I looked up. It was that car again. It was not a local car. I knew that from its shape and size. It is a low-slung, snazzy, red sports car. All the people in this village have what I call useful cars. That is they are made to carry goods, kids or creatures. This is one of them foreign makes. A Mazda or something. Funny I always thought Mazda made electric light bulbs. Anyway it was the same car that I have seen going racing through the village several times lately. Seems to be completely out of place. I wonder what its doing here? I’ll probably never know unless one of them crime-watch programmes on the television starts asking if anyone has seen a red sports car in this area. What they should do instead of asking on the telly is to visit and ask all the old and infirm folks who sit in their windows watching the world go by. They would get plenty really useful of information that way. When I’m on the net tonight I must send that Nick Ross an e-mail about it. Ah! Here’s the boys back with Jet. I’d better stir myself and see if he has plenty of water in his bowl. It will be the first thing the dog will go for when they come in. Might as well put the kettle on for a coffee for myself whilst I’m at it. I can go back to watching all the world and his mate a bit later on.
by Alan Edwards July 2006
scenes thro' a window click play button for streaming audio see Alan Edwards other articles and poems click here members page |
|
|
