The Everything

I thought about escaping today. In my head I'd packed everything I needed for the rest of my life; and what made me laugh out loud, after hours of deliberating, was that I'd decided to take only two pairs of pants. It turned out to be my toughest decision. Well one of them. The other was whether I should take my phone. But the word 'should' answered that one for me, once I eventually realised it was there.

 

I hadn’t booked any tickets. Minimal planning was key. I’d rock up to the airport by train, and see where the departure board took me. I’d seen it done in the movies. I’d be out of here before you could say, “Tickets, please”.

 

Islands appealed, and there were plenty in Hawaii. But I wasn't sure about the Americans. Would they all be like Trump, with orangey faces, and serial-killer smiles? If so, that ruled out mainland USA, too. How about Mongolia? It would have to be Outer, sounds so more remote, like another planet or something. It would be quiet, plenty of space, well off the beaten track. I like yaks, always have done. Yurts, yeah, sort of giant tents aren't they, remind me of the circus. Probably chilly. Bleak winters. Lots of gesturing to communicate (saying that, I always did well during school nativity). Not sure if there’s a direct flight though.

Perhaps this would be harder than I thought. 

 

Wherever I did go, I decided to make a break for it after dark, not long after lights out. I'd make sure I had eaten plenty of protein and carbs in the week leading up to it, and when I was sure Marge was breathing deeply enough, I would creep out of bed, lay my pillow in place of my body - I’d seen Clint Eastwood in Alcatraz do it the week before - slowly tiptoe about shushing myself like a drunk, as I tried to avoid the creaks on the stairs. Then, finally I would write a leaving note. Something like this:

 

 

Dear Family,
 

You know I've been acting a bit weird lately, what with the shoving of whole boiled eggs into my mouth for breakfast and humming 'The Great Escape' around the dinner table every evening? Well, I thought that before things got any worse, I’d clear off and leave you in peace.

 

Oh, and don't forget to put the cat out at night. You know how she can sometimes be sick after the tinned fish.

 

Love Simon/Dad x

 

Ps. This doesn't mean I love you any less; the opposite, in fact. I'm sparing you from any more 'me' before it's too late. I'll write again soon. Farewell.

 

 

(Succinct? - yes. The boiled eggs? - for protein, and I really am not well. The cat? - I almost kidnapped her and found a space on top of the wash bag, but the kids would never have forgiven me).
 

 

                                                              ***
 

So now I’m imagining staring at departure boards, resorting to a sort of eeny, meeny, miny, moe process of elimination, when I then remember a travel series I saw once about a guy who walked across the Namibian desert with a bunch of camels. Benedict was his name (the explorer that is), and I only remember that because I thought at the time he needed the patience of a monk to pull it all off. Anyway, once he'd whipped them into shape, it had appeared fairly straightforward. And this destination ticked many boxes for me: solitude - tick; breathtaking sunrises - tick; connecting with wild animals - half a tick. Because I still clearly recall one of the camels (Nelson) spitting in the adventurer's mouth after it refused another three hours of walking in a sandstorm with a heavy load. Who wouldn't?

 

To be honest, having just read back these words, I'm not really sure if camel trekking is for me. With a decent Spotify playlist, there might be room for negotiation; however, I've gotta leave my phone behind so I guess I'll have to pass. Shame, for a moment there it felt like a bit of a breakthrough.

 

                                                                  ***

 

I've been dreaming weird shit lately. Every night without fail over the last month or so I’ve had them, all about being perched on the edge of a high cliff. Below me, dispersing cloud hints at a world which is yet to be discovered. I'm bloody scared and so excited in equal measure. Each night I get closer to leaping off, but never do. The conditions are never right. Either the wind is too strong, it's blowing in the wrong direction, or the cloud cover makes it appear like a short drop to death rather than a swoop to freedom. Crazy thing is, I can never remember, when dreaming, if I have wings or not. All I remember is wanting to get a lungful of what lies beneath: to suck up the 'everything'. And where exactly was that, that ‘everything’? As things stand I'm guessing it’s anywhere outside Croydon. Although in my dreams it looks more like The Grand Canyon. Close enough on a cloudy day I suppose.

 

You probably think I’m just procrastinating, stretching my horizons too far and wide, trying to climb a mountain when a molehill would do. I know. I've been having a rotten time of it lately, but bloody hell…

I’m pretty sure Ian would’ve known what to do in a crisis. Yes! My late great friend, Ian. KIng of camps. There's a man that ought to know how best to escape, having served a brief spell at her majesty's pleasure. He seemed like a dope most of the time, but had the eyes of a sage, especially when they were swimming in Guinness. He had this lolloping gait and appeared to answer you in delays, as if the answer was coming by carrier pigeon. But, in hindsight that was all a facade, because he came out with some real pearlers, especially after leaving the clink. For instance, he said that the world was on my doorstep, and when he first said this at the pub I'd had two and a half pints on an empty stomach and didn't fully understand, especially as I was trying to tell him (rather badly) that I'd been struggling with a few mental health issues and felt like getting away. 

 

"The doorstep? What, my doorstep, the one outside m' door?" I asked. 

 

"The same. The one I always trip over when I come over. Yeah, the world's there."

 

And he tried to explain his idea over another couple of drinks, getting more and more animated; his hands all of a whirl, his gaze unblinking, his speech crawling through treacle.

 

"Do you remember when we was kids and we built camps in our back gardens? All the rich kids would piss off to Spain or the south of France, wouldn't they?"

 

I half nodded, not really knowing where the point was going, and questioning if we should have had the fifth pint of the black stuff. 

He continued. I knew he'd get there at some stage.

"We could've been anywhere, right? We felt like kings. We was kings in our own way. It was enough. We didn't need to go biking off to the park, or the woods, or another country. We had it all. Throw a sheet over the table in the dining room and we was a million miles away from anywhere, wasn't we?"

 

Wow! Taken too bloody soon. The King of Camps. Ian! And I remember those days so clearly: blankets for camp-covers over the table. The thought of it had me immediately transported: the whispering to each other; the trying to stifle the giggles when parents were speaking in adult language; the farting and how we'd wrestle each other down to bear the smell. And the snacks we took to eat seemed to taste so different under there; more real, sweeter, a bit like food round a camp fire; you know, that kind of better. And with his flickering torch in the darkness lighting up our faces, it might well have been the Moon or Madagascar in there; yet we were home, happy and needing absolutely nothing but each other - on our very own doorsteps.

 

                                                               ***
 

It was dawn by now, and I suddenly realised I'd fallen asleep perched on the edge of the armchair with my backpack still on, looking like someone who had just noticed his existence for the first time. The note I'd scribbled to the family was still on my lap, but blank, apart from Dear Family and a doodle drawing of a cat in a backpack. Ahead of me, through the patio doors, was a garden, a tree-festooned garden, in need of some attention to be sure. Let's say neglected. But maybe just wild enough for a desperate middle-aged man in lockdown to take a leap of faith; to find an old friend he once knew, possibly hiding under some old tarpaulin, torch at the ready, sausage rolls to hand, all ready to help his friend rediscover his everything.