Tuesday, August 21, 2012

Ten years

2002: Just an impression, but I must have been still sore from the angiogram, the liquid piped the wrong way up and the doctor - a contemporary - telling me the pain was 'nothing.' It was something. Warm like whiskey in all the wrong places. I woke up in the morning with a head made of polo mints, small shavings and markers where the scalpel might go. I woke up in the morning to chirping nurses doing their day job, opening curtains and tutting, things they had been taught to do.

2012: Another Basque morning, we got up and showered and dressed and had a look out on the noisiest street in Bilbao. A street where a man could be heard to whisper and a woman would shout 'JULIO!!!' at all hours of the day. Julio always kept his safe distance outside the bar, 20 metres away. We decided to go to San Sebastian and then quickly undecided it, mental as the bus station in San Mames was. We took the tram back towards the Guggenheim instead.

2002: I must have been fasting, so it must have been another morning when my dad showed up with food from home. Another afternoon with his onion bhajis wrapped in tin foil, a substitute for the jelly and ice cream, the lumpy mashed potatoes. No, this morning was fasting and checking the phone, a small Siemens fella or my first Nokia, who knows, while waiting for the trolley.

2012: All curves and steel, glass and concrete, every bit of it spectacular. People call it the 'Gugg' but I've never been a man for shortening, and certainly not where a hard 'G' is concerned. We walked around with our handsets. Getting lost in the angles, scoffing at David Hockney, finding each other in the hiding places and the nooks, finally pretending to be a touch more fascinated than we were while thinking of lunch and wine.

2002: The trolley man saying something about how Malcolm In The Middle is just as good as The Simpsons, then the operating theatre, then sleep.

2012: Back to the apartment, the noise, the heat and some happiness at a shower, a sit, a read of our books and a can of 7-Up. Perhaps we napped, maybe we didn't, we probably wondered whether it was possible to be bored and content at the same time.

2002: My sister's footsteps - clip clop clip - she walked like a teacher and is a teacher. Sketch! She took one look at me, conscious, said "thank God" and immediately walked back out of the room to text the concerned. My folks stayed, my head sore, and soon came the sweet relief of a painkiller administered somewhere it shouldn't have been. But it worked. So fuck it.

2012: She wanted to buy me dinner, a celebration of the anniversary, so I got us a takeaway pizza instead and we ate it on the side of the street with a can of San Miguel. Bilbao had been foretold of our classiness.

2002: Beeps of the phone, recovery room, sitting up, lying down, no mirrors, head out to 'there,' Lucozade and other standard issue, a silent night and walking drips.

2012: We sat by the Cathedral at 10.30, willing the ice cream shop to be a late night opener, but we were pushing it. We sat anyway, then found the angry Chinese man in his corner shop, grabbed our dessert, some beers, went home and had a sup.

Wednesday, August 08, 2012

Who needs a title?

I'm not to be found too often around these parts, this weather, which I find to be both clammy and disagreeable.

"Sure he wouldn't hurt a fly."

He fucking would if he could catch the prick.

My legendary irascibility aside, would I sound too like the internet's Darragh Doyle were I to ask how you're all doing?

I don't really care, I'm fixed more on higher thoughts like the wild effects of chorizo, and fly-fishing, and those of you that happened across this little cubbyhole of mother cyberland in its pomp have largely fucked off to Pinstagram anyway. 

Anyway, my laptop's taken poorly and I'll hardly tarry long but to say Bilbao awaits. 

There had best be things to note, give out about and come home with.