Test match

Like many men who worship cricket he rhapsodised about the crack of leather on willow and spent much of that summer trying to convert me. It being necessary to attend daily, and stay until the stumps were drawn, he was sensitive enough to keep me sweet by providing hampers and champagne, by introducing me to his friends confident, in spite of their much better looks, their more sparkling conversation, I’d not stray.

And knowing, in the coolness of the evening, I knew no-one else so deliciously, efficiently capable of applying leather, raising puckered weals on this Willow as did he. 

Map reading

He was the second man to appreciate.

Most commented on the cost. Made some remark which incorporated, in intent if not actuality, words such as ‘spendthrift’ and ‘narcissist’; their revulsion stemming from being forced to contemplate – come face to face with – their ignorance, their inadequacy and the fear they had left it far too late.

He knew to translate the tiny script of circled rubrics. To trace, with tongue and fingertip, touch sparse as exhaled breath of sleeping babe, the fine-inked lines that  led inexorably to the places where pleasure was most intense.

And understood the tattooist had been first. 

‘Sweets for the journey’

Chocolate limes and sherbet lemons, as anticipatory as the travel. Chilly car, pre-dawn departure, squabbling northwards to the Scottish border.  Arrive in time to watch the midday ferry coming in.

So few years since.

Now, innocence become recklessness, I suck on hard to bring forth something less than sweet. And the white powder thus afforded something different altogether.