| Miles Hunt spends a day in the country... |
 I write this on St. Patrick’s Day. Most of my friends are out in Dublin, witnessing a two night stand by the mighty Damien Dempsey. I had a plane ticket and a hotel booked to go myself, but after getting off the road from a Wonder Stuff tour, my constitution isn’t what it needs to be to handle that wonderful city. Call me lightweight… Instead I celebrate with a week in the country, Shropshire to be precise. I’ve owned a little house here for 10 years now, it’s my bolt hole, particularly for times of recuperation. The idea was to come here to cool my boots before The Wonder Stuff take to the road again, later this month, all over North America for five weeks. On arriving back at the house I discovered that my boiler was on the blink and my fridge had also died. A steady stream of engineering type folk have been in and out since, when all I desired was solitude. I wouldn’t describe myself as a misanthrope, but as I get older I find that if I spend a week in company then I require the same amount of time of pure isolation to readdress the balance. Thankfully with the lifestyle I’ve been blessed with, I get to do just that. Failing household appliances aside… Today was the first day that I ventured away from my doorstep. A trip to the dry cleaners in a local town and to pick up some more supplies. A newspaper (I live without television in the country, I tend to shout at it too much), wine, fags and a bed tray (the kind of thing you have in hospital to eat your food off). I’ve written before about my inherent idleness, the more that can be achieved from my mattress, the happier I am. But the hardware store was out of stock. Knickers.... As I was making the 10 or 15 mile trip over the hill I got stuck behind an old couple in a small red car. They were averaging 25 miles an hour and I was fighting irritation. At the bottom of the hill is a level crossing, right before you pull onto the A49. As I approached, still stuck behind Ma and Pa, I heard the alarm sound that the barriers were lowering as a train approached. There are two level crossings I regularly deal with around here, this particular one is my least favourite. The operator always waits 2 or 3 minutes after the train has passed before raising the barrier. This is not so with the crossing further down the A49, where the guy appreciates we’ve all got things to do and has the things up as soon as the train has passed. So I sat there cursing the old couple in front of me for being so slow up the hill. Had the old bugger put his pedal to the metal and achieved say, 30 mile a feckin’ hour, I’d be on my way. I reminded myself to be calm (for that is why I come to the country) and turned off the engine. As it was, sitting there, I received a text message from Damien Dempsey himself, wishing me a happy St. Paddies Day! I eased back and found my smile. The barrier finally lifted and the Old Boy pulled away. Twenty yards after the rail tracks is the junction onto the A49. There was nothing coming, but Pops played his waiting game. Finally a shiny new Volvo came around the corner and just as it was passing Ma and Pa, their little red vehicle pulled out and belted it in the passenger side, careering it across the road. Holy shit methinks....
“Sir, you need to stop driving and consider some other form of transport, you coulda killed this gentleman.” I amazed myself at my composure, I hated the silly old fucker. He’d delayed me on the hill, sent my blood pressure up another few notches at the barrier and now was intent on a one man killing spree! “What happened? My wife said it was clear....” he pleaded. His wife... good grief... It turned out the disabled guy in the Volvo was on his way to hospital. His mother was in the passenger seat and suffered with Alzheimer's. The front of his car was trashed and he was upset. If it had to go away for repairs, he’d have no form of transport to ferry his ageing mother around, because the Volvo had been modified for his disabilities. I woulda handed him the keys to the old boy’s little red thing had this not been the case. The old boy muttered and reprimanded his wife, Joan, for walking too close to the road. He began asking me if the police needed to be involved, to which I responded in a much less benevolent manner. They swapped insurance details, I called the hospital to let them know the Volvo’s passenger would be late for her appointment, gave them my details in case they needed a witness and went on about my business. What was my business....? Oh yeah, a quiet day in the countryside. I strolled around the little supermarket in town, noticing that Twix now do a bite size, not as good as the KitKat bites, but no great disappointment all the same. As I queued with my basket I encountered another elder couple, faffing about at something that could’ve waited until I was safely home. The Mrs. headed toward the magazine rack, looking uncannily like Molly Sugden and as soon as she was out of earshot her husband asked the kid on the till for some cashback. Apparently the card that he’d offered up didn’t ‘do’ cashback and the cashier said it so loud that Molly heard, “You don’t need cash back, why do you want cash? You’ve got enough!” she howled at him from the magazine rack. Poor fucker.... humiliated in the local shop, for all to see. I imagined him making secret trips to the bookies or the pub. Not today my friend. Not today. As they departed the cashier and I rolled our eyes and laughed. A lady behind me said, “You’ll all be that old one day!” she reprimanded. “I certainly hope not,” I responded “Gimme a diet of wine, fags, chocolate and cheese and may The Gods take me early!”. On arriving home my neighbour was in our yard with a huge fishing net, attempting to catch an injured bird. It looked like a hell of a job, too much energy required. I’m seriously thinking of heading back to the city for a nice rest… Check out more pieces on LeftLion by Miles Comment (0)  Send to friend  Print  Add to Facebook  Socialise
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