13. A Kick Inside...

Saturday 17th December 2005

No¦ real life's not about winning the Lottery. Not for most of us, anyway. It's about winning the other game. The daily kick-about. The old one-two. The passes and fouls. The offside shots. The penalties. The poxy decisions. The missed chances. The shouts from the stands ' from the few supporters who always turn out. The brilliant saves. And the occasional goal, of course.

So, after the excitement, it's back to normal. Back to thoughts of work. And then Christmas, just up the road. I sat up late last night, wrote some cards, and wrapped up a couple of things I'd got for friends. For Sherlock, a quarter bottle of Chekov vodka and a can of Dr Pepper (aka Skid Row Special) ' plus a wad of Rizlas and a Zippo to go with the eighth of something I know he's managed to secure for himself against stiff seasonal competition. For Yoyo, some business cards I made for him and printed off. I was quite proud of the design: the 'Y's of his name as hands, the 'O's as yoyos descending from them and also forming the relevant letters of 'O dd J O bs'. That'll make him chuckle. And at least it was something creative with words. For Denise, for allowing the occasional tab, a manicure gift voucher. Apart from them, there was the pub Secret Santa. And who did I draw? Who do you think? Of course. My own favourite millionaire. So, I got him a couple of scratch cards. I know he'll see the funny side, at least.

Then there was me, of course. A couple of bits for myself ' in case they don't come from anywhere else. Being prepared, and all that. A 4-pack of Tennant's and a bottle of Co-op whisky. I put them in a Christmas carrier and tied some ribbon around the handles ' to help me resist temptation.

And I certainly needed to do that. Because doing those things, as nice as they were, exacted that little extra cost that's always there ' in small print, at the end of the bill. The one that never gets fully paid off.

The thoughts of the person who isn't there.

And Christmas is the time when you feel it the most. Especially when things are going so well for others¦

.

...Like Yoyo and Gemma. Four dates in and they're getting on famously ' at least, if the noises I hear from downstairs are anything to go by. With Beth and Daz as well, I've now got stereo. And speaking of them, they had a new bed delivered yesterday. Their Christmas present to each other, Daz told me, as we watched their old one being taken down bit by bit. They'd only had it a year and it looked like Yoyo had been using it as a trampoline.

And then Suzy and Trina, who announced last night that they're going for a civil partnership in 2006. They're such a happy couple. In fact, I've often wondered if same-sex couples work it out better than heteros. The lack of the 'gender gap', kind of thing: closer psychology, better understanding. Or maybe that's just complete bollocks, and I'm making excuses for the fact that I've never been able to make things work myself.

Except once, perhaps. Possibly once. I had the chance, at least¦

.

...so, I do all those things: the cards and the presents. And sure as you like, first thing this morning, the old dog comes scratching around, and Giant Despair pokes his arse down the chimney, heaving a sackful of sadness.

And today ' I surrendered to them. I stayed in, drinking mugs of coffee and nothing stronger, eating fruit and sandwiches as the hunger came to me. I went through my mental file drawer this time. It was all there, in alphabetical order. B for Booze. C for Childhood. F for Family and Friends. M for Meds. S for School. W for Work and for Writing.

And, fattest file of all¦ L for Love.

And L for Lucy.

L for Love and for Lucy. And for Loss.

A day of indulgence, in other words. Sometimes, perhaps, it's necessary. Sometimes, you need to hit the downers big-time as a way of bringing yourself up again ' like a mental bungee jump. As long as you understand what you're doing, and can contain it. Which is why I stayed off the booze.

A day for isolation ' even if that seems like entirely the wrong thing. The streets beckoned. The mad theatre of a town centre Saturday the week before Christmas, with its push and shuffle and chat. The charity stalls, the church bazaars, the laughter of kids, the lights and glitter, the flutter of bunting. A lone trumpeter along Mariner Plains blowing 'Misty' in long, bluesy notes above the crowd and into the sky and away. Then the pub tonight, with its known faces and histories. A few beers and a yarn with Sherlock. A tip and a wink. A glimpse of a face. The shine of an eye. Words unspoken. A brief dream of better things.

But I needed none of it. Today, I wanted the comfort of being alone. A day with my thoughts, and my music: the old stuff, but the stuff that's tried and tested. The emotional staging posts. Nick Drake. Leonard Cohen. The Verve. The Smiths. Neil Young. Indigo Girls. Eels. The Beatles. The Stones. REM. Kate Bush. The Boss. Even U2 (Fuck it, I don't care if it's unfashionable to say it, I like their music ' even if Bono is a twat. Who gives a fuck about fashion, anyway? Who gives a fuck what anyone else thinks? What I think's all that counts today.) The Arctic Monkeys will doubtless find their day with me, ten years or so hence. Today, though, I needed some history.

Even further back, the classical stuff¦ so necessary in times like this. More so than rock 'n' roll, perhaps. Rachmaninov. Satie. Mozart. Tchaikovsky. Greig.

And then I found the piece that finally lanced the abcess and brought everything flooding out. Faure's Cantique de Jean Racine. John Rutter, the Cambridge Singers and the City of London Sinfonia. One of the most beautiful pieces ever composed. Lucy's favourite. So beautiful it freezes my heart and shatters it to smithereens. It was the first time I'd played it for three years, since the day she left. And somehow, it felt like it had been waiting there until today ' sitting in the CD case quietly collecting dust, beaming out at me like a lighthouse. But today I was ready to get closer to the rocks, and see if I was a good enough sailor to steer around them safely.

And I made it, with a few scrapes and a buckled rudder, maybe ' but I made it.

Ah, Lucy. The woman who brought out the poet in me:

Calm sets like a wish on the night.
In your garden, the fruit trees bloom
with stars. The sky tilts its last light
to the edge. Everything disappears.

We step along hushed roads, discussing
astrology, imagined worlds, things lost
in the turn of a day. We are held in
space that shrinks as we speak.

Need centres us.
We find our axis as the world
spins away, and time stops.

Apart, the pivot remains.
Knowing is enough.

She's another story. For another day, maybe.

Now, I just need to be quiet and alone.

Not lonely. Alone...