Tuesday, 19 August 2014

I Chased the Cloud Shadows up Over the Moor...



I chased the cloud shadows up over the moor and onto the estate where the men still drive Rovers and wear their hair in elaborate comb-overs that flip up in the wind like busy, beige peddle-bin lids. Wind-assisted lapwings flocked in the field behind the abandoned Renault camper (£500 ono), the pretend duck by the bin-store ‘quacked’ as I passed, and a replica of a basset-hound peered out from the large stone handbag in Mrs Hinchliffe’s alpine rockery, its head bobbing on a spring. People in comfy shoes were restraining small terriers, frying liver and onions, smoking cigs, and scraping fluvial sediment from a storm drain with a butter knife. A man with a bit of dinner on his face was sitting on a collapsible chair outside his conservatory door. He was surrounded by marigolds, begonias, gladioli, Sport For All stickers, a faded Basil Ede print of some ducks, a pile of VHS video cassettes, a dozen or so pretend meerkats, and a miniature wooden wheelbarrow stuffed with pansies and snapdragons. Next door, a ten year old dusty-pink Kia Picanto pulled up and a grey haired man with thick, plastic rimmed reactolite glasses and a three-quarter length beige anorak climbed out. He slammed the door, opened the boot, and unloaded three heavy looking Lidl bags-for-life. He pulled out a small packet of dog biscuits and held it up high to show the man with the dinner on his face who shouted, ’Thanks, Derek!’ and pointed towards the open door of his green plastic shed, ‘Wob us it in there, can you?’