“Go back to bed,” I snarl.

The Toddler does not want to go back to bed. “Go back to bed,” I repeat. But to no avail. It is the same every morning. I do not know at what age children’s brains fully develop and they start realising that ‘go back to bed’ are the four best words in the English language alongside ‘fancy a quick pint?’ and ’shall I wear boots?’. “Go back to bed,” I insist, from under the duvet.

It is fruitless. I rise bad-temperedly, and start thinking about breakfast.

There is something particularly draining about feeding the chickens, making tea, cooking breakfast, starting the washing machine, emptying the dishwasher, doing play-doh, drawing some pictures, doing a jigsaw, watching ‘Thomas the Tank Engine’, doing some more play-doh, hanging out the washing, checking on the chickens again, giving the dollies their milk and taking them to the play supermarket, making some more tea, putting some more washing on, watching ‘Hana’s Helpline’, putting the play-doh away and doing one more jigsaw and then looking at your watch to discover that it’s still 9.20am.

Fortunately, we still have to go to the Village Shop. That will kill fifteen minutes.

Honestly, I don’t understand what it is about children that they want to cram so much into the day. It can’t be healthy. She demands to watch Postman Pat, but I put my foot down. Postman Pat is different now. I suspect he might have had a bust-up with the Post Office licensing people, as he works from the ‘Special Delivery Service’ depot instead of the Post Office, and keeps buzzing around delivering stuff in helicopters.

We go to the Village Shop. I am knackered now. It is 10am.

I go to the food fridge.

There is not a lot of food in the food fridge, as I have not been to the market for a while. Onions, potatoes, some condiments, a huge tub of Spanish anchovies, chorizos, cheese, tomatoes, ham.

I take some ham, guiltily, and slip it into my mouth. Its salty taste explodes around my lips, teeth and tongue; I savour the taste lustfully for many moments before swallowing in pleasure.

“Mmm!!!” I murmur, to the onions and potatoes. Then I have another bit.

I have always worked on the basis that you know you’re abroad if the ham’s shit. But visiting Spain has turned my whole world upside-down, from a ham point of view.

The taste of the second slice brings no diminishing returns, so I have a third. As far as I am concerned, Spanish Jamón is the new heroin. God knows how I am going to get off it. They should offer you a luncheon meat substitute on the NHS.

The food was one of the main things that I was looking forward to on visiting Madrid. I had very much enjoyed the Spanish cooking show on Channel 4 last year, which was presented by Thomasina Miers, the peckish man’s Kirstie Allsopp. But I had never considered Spanish ham before. It is so good, you could almost call it a waste of Branston Pickle.

A fifth bit. There is a doubt nagging away at me – that perhaps the LTLP’s idea to buy lots so that we can invite people round and hold a cultured ‘Spanish Evening’ might only half work. There is certainly – um – a lot less in the bag than there was when we landed back at Luton. She will understand.

I donated two pairs of pants to the Madridians: a black pair that had become grey, and a red pair that were still red but had some holes. In return, I took ham. If that’s not a cultural exchange then I don’t know what is.

I take a sixth bit. There is still enough left over for some hors d’oeuvres, perhaps if they were bulked out by some Pringles. I will never criticise another country’s ham again. I am ignorant.

I take a seventh bit.

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I am currently overseas for a very short while.

Back soon!!! Do read some of the archives if you’re bored.

“It’s very good of you,” says Big A appreciatively.

“It’s no problem,” I reply, and it really isn’t. That is the good thing about living in a small village. People borrow other peoples’ stuff all the time. I start decanting the petrol into his can.

“Are you sure you don’t need this?” he asks.

“Nonono,” I reply. “To be honest, I never use it since I got rid of the petrol mower. The electric one’s a pain in the arse, but at least it starts every time.”

There is a small amount of crud in the mixture. I fetch some kitchen roll to filter it.

“What happened to your petrol mower?”

“Heap of shit,” I reply. “I don’t know whether it was the starter, or the filter, or the carb, or whatever.” I scowl. I had enjoyed having the mower whilst it lasted, but that wasn’t very long, and £150 is a lot of money for what is basically the equivalent of a gardener’s cock extension. Also, even after eighteen months, my arm is still a bit sore from tugging away at the starter cord, punching and kicking it, etc., during my heroic yet vain attempts to get the thing to work.

The final drips emerge from the can; I reach for the lid.

Something nags at me as go to screw it on. I hold the can up to my face.

“It smells a bit odd. Does this smell odd?” I ask.

We both smell the petrol, then smell the petrol again. Neither of us are sure that it smells like petrol. It smells, perhaps, like the can has once had petrol in it, but has been refilled with – say – weedkiller, or a weak lemony drink.

“Are you sure that’s petrol?” he asks.

Big A dips some kitchen roll in the mixture and waves his lighter at it. The flame burns a square inch of paper before fizzling out, wetly.

“Well I thought it was petrol. To be honest, I haven’t used it since I had to dump the mower because it wouldn’t start.”

We look at each other.

“Oh.”

Anti-hero turned villain of the classic Mervyn Peake Gormenghast trilogy

Youthful renegade, Machiavellian plotter, false lover, killer, ugly slightly-deformed man who had suffered horrible burns in a murdering accident.

But much more than that.

Steerpike. One of the best, most innovative and influential bands – no, let us say the best, most innovative and influential bands in not just Billericay, but Wickford and Basildon as well.

Steerpike. What a name for a band! It was such a good name that, although we didn’t realise it, there was a Steerpike in Norwich and a Steerpike in Sussex as well. The former is on Wikipedia, although you should note that they are up for deletion as being not notable enough for inclusion.

I leaf through the old flyers and posters, and it all comes rushing back to me.

This was an exciting time in my life. The loud guitars, the girls, the seminal gig supporting chart legends The Sultans of Ping. And then, just as our breakthrough seemed certain, I ran over the bass player’s foot in my Reliant, and the drummer was prosecuted by Basildon Council’s Noise Reduction team and couldn’t practice any more. We continued for a while with replacements, but it wasn’t the same.

More old tickets, flyers, a backstage pass for the Pink Toothbrush club.

I take a deep breath. Dave, Iain and Simon are on Facebook. I don’t tend to approach the past that much, as the present is horrible enough – but in one email I shift away almost two decades of what might have been.

They all reply, in good humour. Simon is well; Iain doesn’t play any more but would love to get together one last time; Dave has forgiven me about the foot thing. I realise what good friends we were and how, with the Sultans of Ping, we came so close to touching stardom. Why do people lose touch like this? It is a shame.

Now Simon’s in financial services, Iain’s a surveyor and Dave works in IT. So in one way, and in one way alone, there is a tinge of sadness involved. I am the only one remaining who still lives the life, who has kept the flame of rock and roll alive. It is bitter-sweet.

Shaking my head, I switch off the PC and walk reflectively up the road to bowls.

—

Edit: A retrospective addition to credit the affordable health insurance people for helping with this post. They were big fans of Steerpike, oh yes.

Dusty and slightly squashed, A4 in size, rescued from my parents’ loft.

I open it carefully and slightly apprehensively, as it comes from the past. The smell of old, dusty papers wafts up, released into the fresh Norfolk air for the first time for almost two decades.

Postcards. Newspaper cuttings and cartoons. A photograph of a Canadian diesel-electric locomotive. I leaf through each, transfixed.

A ticket stub: the Richard Thompson Band at the London Palladium. A torn-off scrap of paper featuring the shakily-written address of a girl with whom I’d once briefly been associated, and who was universally known amongst my friends as ‘the Sad Nympho’. A Reliant bonnet badge. An old train ticket to London Liverpool Street. An invitation to a Finnish Independence Day party in Blean, Kent.

And what I’d been looking for.

Lots and lots of stuff about Steerpike.

To be continued.

They startle me, despite the bright sunshine. I gaze out of the window in surprise.

A van stops sharply, then reverses at some speed past the front of the Cottage, but not so fast that I can’t make out the words ‘Emergency Response Vehicle’ painted on the door. The roof-mounted lights flash purposefully as it pulls to a halt outside the hedge.

A man jumps out, pulls a wet brush from the van, and wipes the ‘30mph’ sign that stands there. He then leaps back into the cab and speeds off into the distance.

It has been a strange week.

The LTLP has been working abroad a lot. I have been all on my own except for the Toddler, who I’ve had to take to childrens’ parties, then I’ve had to go to airports, then I had to go to a pigfarm and followed it up with dining on a BK ‘Texican’ burger, then the whole mexican pig thing broke, then I had to do some family type stuff, then the Toddler got her head stuck in the chicken coop, then a pigeon did a big shit on my clean washing, then the LTLP came home with lots of Polish vodka and I can’t really remember the rest.

I think I need to get a grip on things a bit more. The nice weather will help, although it has attracted about a grillion large black flying things that splatter on your windscreen and get into your mouth as you ride your bicycle. I have cleaned some manky things off the barbecue and perhaps I will recommission it in the days to come.

It is a Bank Holiday weekend in Norfolk, which essentially means that we get Monday off, although I am going to another childrens’ party and will probably be oinking uncontrollably by then. But I feel I need to enjoy life a bit more and be a bit more racy and dynamic. The bowls season starting will help. But I am introspective, at present. I found a box of old Things in the attic at my parent’s house, and I may write about these Things next week when I have considered them a bit more.

I now need to wrap a present.

Oh. The sun has gone in, and it has started to spit with rain.

Enjoy your weekends.