Tuesday, 19 August 2014

I Chase Cloud Shadows Up Over the Moor...



I chase 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 flock in the field behind the abandoned Renault camper (£500 ono), the pretend duck by the bin-store quacks as I pass, and a replica of a basset-hound peers out from the large stone handbag in Mrs Hinchliffe’s alpine rockery, its head bobbing on a spring. People in comfy shoes are 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 is sitting on a collapsible chair outside his conservatory door. He is 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 pulls up and a grey haired man with thick, plastic rimmed Reactolite glasses and a three-quarter length beige anorak climbs out. He slams the door, opens the boot, and unloads three heavy looking Lidl bags-for-life. He pulls out a small packet of dog biscuits and holds it up high to show the man with the dinner on his face who shouts, ’Thanks, Derek!’ and points towards the open door of his green plastic shed, ‘Wob us it in there, can you?’