The Man from Middlesbrough

Brighton

Dear Reader, 

I am so sorry that I didn't write my blog last week, I went to Brighton to see my sister who lives there and who has dementia.  It was a 'curates egg' stay with ups and downs.  It is very sad to see someone who was so active and funny become much less so with wild stories of people stealing her things including her jewellery.  None of this was true but I went along with the narrative, even suggesting she went to the police.  She was going to do that she said.  In fact she can't now use her telephone, has hearing problems and difficulty understanding how to use it.  BUT being in the marvelous town of Brighton was a complete treat.  

My daughter Jessica drove my there in her usual responsible way so no worry about the dreadful  M25 and all its traffic problems.  And then suddenly in the sunshine we arrived in delectable Brighton.  We parked outside my sister's house and then trotted up the road to a cafe. This cafe was full of the exciting and interesting people that live there.  Lots of colourful clothes, stripey stockings, small dogs on leads and blonde pony tails by the dozen.  Everyone having a good and fun time.  On Sunday morning Jessica and I left my sister's house and on the way home we sailed down to the sea front.  We walked along the promenade and chomped over pebbles on the beach and then munched a brunch in one of the sea front cafes, watching the world go by, in the sun.   

I always wish I lived in Brighton.  It is a magical place, exciting and colourful and I love it.

                                                                                  

                                                                                        *

From John Clare, 1824 in Northants, September 26th 

'Took a walk in the fields, heard the harvest cricket and shrew-mouse uttering their little chickering songs among the crackling stubble'.

From John Clare, 1824, in Northants, September 29th

'Took a walk in the fields, saw an old wood-style taken away from a favourite spot which it had occupied all my life. The posts were overgrown with ivy and it seem'd so akin to nature and the spot where it stood as tho' it had taken on a lease for an undisturbed existence.  It hurt me to see it was gone'.

                                                                                     *

 

 

The Man from Middlesbrough  

ordered another cup of tea,
lit another cigarette.

He held his head
in his history-stained hands,
nicotine fingers clutching
tufts of dirty grey hair.
He stared, not-seeing, at
the plastic table-cloth,
his mind numb.

His father, his grandfather,
worked in this shipyard
watched ships lovingly grow
from steel plates to proud traders,
built to sail from the Tees estuary,
into the North Sea
and the world's great oceans.  

In his head the man heard the noise,
music to him, of drag chains,
when a ship pushed along
the greasy slipway, slid into the sea.
And the man thought of his mates,
of shared experiences from schooldays,
first girlfriends, first kisses,
walks in the Cleveland hills.
And he thought of the old canteen,
warm with steam from the tea urn,
from brotherhood.

The man wiped his eyes
with the back of his hand
ordered another cup of tea,
lit another cigarette.

                                                                                   *

With very best wishes, Patricia