Molepuppet Shoes

Victoria Park is split in two by a river. There’s a small bridge in the middle. I’d tell you more of its history but I’ve never bothered to dig that deep. The park has waste bins for dogshit but no grief bins where the sad can tip their tears and bury their mistakes. I’m   at my usual spot sitting on an old iron bench on a sunny day in June. It’s 11am on a Tuesday. I love watching people pass me by. There are several dog walkers exchanging comments to each other probably about their dogs and pretending they are not four legged children. Dogs mirror their owners, happy, angry, old, tired some also mimic their walking style. They all them seem happy to sniff piss and occasionally shit where they please, the dogs not the owners. This gives me an idea for a dog owning internet dating site (sniffandshag.com) which I quickly dismiss, it’s probably already out there.

I pretend to read my book, ‘how to spend your massive lottery win’ a title I’ve just made up because I was thinking of who the book might attract. The real title is Innocent when you dream a loose badly written bio of Tom Waits. Shadows wander past covering my pages with temporary darkness. I choose this moment to quietly slip into other folk’s lives. Eyes are everywhere, some squinting, some with shades some covered with a saluting arm to help see ahead. Mine are half shut on account of the morning’s whisky I’ve consumed. I’m not a drunk I just choose different hours to do my drinking. I can hear my imagination scratching to get out so I set it free and hope it’ll run wild for a while. Maybe it can see a way out of here.

I notice a smartly dressed guy with a white v neck jumper, white cotton shirt, white jeans, what kind of fucking man dresses in all white who isn’t in a bakery? He’s wearing a pair of expensive looking brogues that crunch along the pea gravel path. I’m cruelly wishing pigeons would shit on him or he’d get a sudden bout of diarrhoea for wearing too much white. I wonder if he’s meeting someone here then immediately lose interest because he’s become white fucking noise.

There’s an elderly couple walking slowly taking in the oxygen of the morning. I imagine they’re taking farewell looks at their own history. They must be in their eighties. It’s a beautiful thing seeing such longevity and warmth between two long time lovers. I smile as they hold hands and shuffle past me The old man notices my smile, leans towards me, looks me in straight in the eye and says ‘this is our first date’. I add another theory to my two thirds full pissed on theory bucket.

The river that runs through this park has little interest in its past, it has never been an old trading route and no sailors came looking for treasure, drink or whores. The only fish that swim in this stretch are bleak which is appropriate. I sometimes see one or two of them come to the surface and plead to be caught I apologise to them explaining that no one fishes here.

There are birds hanging out in trees, different colours and sizes busy with idle conversation. I could probably name their breeds but that would be an admittance that a large slice of my life is missing. Besides other than wings, markings, feet, beak and noise what’s to know? Maybe I should give them my own names. The females always look the prettiest the males just look horny, hungry or keen to show off. Such is life. They take turns to stare at me as if they think I know something they don’t.

A woman heads my way; she looks illicitly dressed with brand new guilt this morning. This could get interesting. I’d say she was mid forties, attractive, slim with let’s have sex perfume advert clothes on. Her blood red dress sends a message dog owning men turn their heads. Her hair bounces in step with her heels thet defy the unsettled path. She seems to be searching for someone, a lover perhaps. She sat down on a bench several feet from mine. I tried not to stare at her beautiful long legs. She took a mirror from here bag and gently ironed out her creases. I decided that on closer inspection she looked like she fell out of a Barbara Cartland novel, too much make up hiding a naturally pretty face.

My imagination takes me away from where she sits. I’m now venturing into where I think she is in her life. Here’s what I think happens next;

Tamarind Sibley, it’s a shit name but I’ve given it to her because it sounds like a Range Rover driving yummy mummy which is usually a misconception. I’ve chosen her lover, it saves time, though she didn’t really want one but years of neglect from her husband Stafford Sibley, a wealthy landowner with a fondness for money and affairs has pushed her into seeking affection elsewhere. Her lover is a rough diamond called John Jones who runs a small but successful building company. His face is lined with bedpost notches.He’s late thirties handsome and because of his work he’s also physically strong and fit. Jones’s golden rule is not to fall in love with a woman of means. He’s been there before and knows that a lack of love at home doesn’t mean a comfortable life will be sacrificed for a smaller home or social circle.

John Jones met Mrs Sibley when he did some work on her huge house in the country. He was attracted to her experience she liked his way of describing his life in abbreviation. It began with flirting over coffee and now several weeks later it’s at the sneaking away to Hotels stage. They always pay cash and use false names. The sex is explosive, tearing the cobwebs of abstinence at home to shreds. The silence of the following morning floats like mist across water to slowly drip feed the rising guilt. Conversation is limited secrets, must be kept. Both accept that this firework display will burn out but until it does the mating season will continue.

I’m vainly admiring my constructive artwork of Mrs Sibley until I’m disturbed by the noise she makes as she rises from her seat and walks towards who I thought would be her lover. She embraces a very attractive woman of a similar age and style. My theory bucket is now full. I decide to walk to the other side of the park and have my morning conversation with stoned Stan the park keeper. I say conversation I mean try and catch him as he orbits earth.

Cont…