1) The interaction with Little Nicky (or conceivably Nikki), guard on Cardiff Central train station, platform 1. Everyone else had told me, when I tried to get an early train back to London, that I was deeply screwed and would have to wait for the 5.25, my ‘appointed train’. Nicky said that there were huge delays up ahead, so she could let me get on the fast train. Am I nuts, or does that just mean I’ll hit the trouble that much faster?
2) The interaction with the cabbie, who explained my delay last night. “Oh aye, they nick the copper from the railway lines. People are getting desperate, they’ll nick anything. Mind, coppers fetching a good price at the minute…” #suspiciousofacabbiemuch
3) My dad, with whom an interaction wasn’t directly had. Having surrendered the Tudor pants to my mother, I got into my new Master suit for a bit, just to see how it felt now we’d committed to it and brought it home. Later, one I was on Little Nicky’s train, my wife forwarded me an email from my mother, relating a phone conversation she’d had with my dad, in which apparently he’s said, and I’m quoting here, “Anthony looked like a million dollars, and I’m so proud of him.”
Now don’t get me wrong, I’m thrilled I could bring him a bit of happiness today. Was good to see him with his stitches out after his surgery last week, and I swear he’s hearing more. Or I’m unconsciously raising my vocal register, one of the two. But…what?
I mean, I beggared about the house a bit. In a suit. Is that what made him proud of me? Could be – he likes a smart suit, does my dad. Or at least a collar and tie – when we went to pick him up after his surgery, he was sitting up in bed, in a collar and tie with a sweater over top – the most perfect definition of ‘smart casual’ I think I’ve ever actually seen in real life. But it seems a little weird that my wearing a suit would be a source of pride to him – after all, it’s not like he hasn’t seen me in a suit before; I wore one of my very first suits to his wedding to my mother two and a half decades ago.
Was it the Disappearing that made him proud of me? The compulsion not to die quite yet, but avoid future health problems by taking on the weight? Again, could be – he’s nothing if not indomitable in the face of health grimness himself. Eleven years ago he went I for a Whipple’s Procedure – you’ll find it in Wikipedia under Surgeries, Bloody Gruesome, and while he was having big chunks of fairly vital innards removed, they discovered he also has Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma. Wikipedia, Diseases, Insidious Bastard. Plus, the gubbins he had removed were significantly important, and without them, he’s become an insulin-dependent diabetic. Annnd he has some level of asbestos I his lungs, from years ago when as an apprentice gas fitter, he used to beggar about with the stuff.
I won’t say he bears all this with silent fortitude, cos I mean, after all, he’s a bloke, but considering his multiple licenses to whine and bitch, he’s a good, solid, old-fashioned shut-the-Hell-up-about-it man. One day, I’d love to be that strong. Donnnn’t hold your breath though, I’m still whinging about a broken toe!
So – could be that he hadn’t properly registered the Disappearing at its current level till today, and the knuckle-downiness of it hit him today, and made him proud?
Thing is, it’s not like you can ask, is it? Not like next time I see him I’ll be able to go “Hey dad – heard you were proud of me…What’s that about then?” Blokes like my dad don’t work like that, wouldn’t even really understand the question, and it would sort of spoil the whole thing, so I’d never even raise it. And I guess, really, it’s not remotely important – I’m just feeling a bit privileged to have heard what he said, even at three removes. So…Yay!
Oh incidentally, the proper conductor on this train has just been by. I said “I spoke to Little Nicky at Cardiff…”
“Ohhhh yes sir, she did mention she’d spoken to a flustered gentleman…” he said, stamping my ticket with a smile.
Flustered! Humph. Just because when Nicky asked to see my ticket, I showed her a seat reservation…then yesterday’s seat reservation, then my receipt, then my ticket from Merthyr to Cardiff, then put my bag down, getting it caught in the earbuds of my iPod, and dropping my book. I picked up the book.
“Sir, the train’s coming in,” she said, kindly.
“Christ, I can’t have left the ticket on the kitchen table,” I said, “that would suck.”
She laughed, and signed my seat reservation. “Just tell ’em I’ve seen both bits of your ticket,” she said, making it sound oddly rude somehow. I bumbled onto the train, realised I’d taken out the ticket to get through the barrier, dug it out of my trouser pocket and waved it to her, impeding other passengers from getting on.
“Flustered gentleman” indeed!
Still, my dad’s proud of me, so nehh!
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