Mind the Gap

As I walk to work, a fine rain is swirling about me. It coats everything and sticks to the pavements like sweat. When I turn the corner I half expect to see someone holding a giant aerosol can with RAIN EXTRA-FINE written on the side. There isn’t. I lower my umbrella and let the cool water droplets wash against my face. It quickly ages my cashmere Crombie coat from black and youthful to white and old, complete with fuzzy wet down.

Today is an excellent day for my Mother to venture outside. She suffers from an auto-immune condition called Sjogren’s syndrome which dries up her mucous membranes. She has difficulty swallowing, and her eyes don’t make enough tears. She says she had the symptoms for over two years before anyone put all the pieces together. Her dentist, a nice woman called Marion diagnosed her during a routine dental examination. She still sends her a birthday card and some flowers.

I won’t text her and tell her about the weather. She’s probably on the case anyway. Talking of cases, my Dad’s given me this old battered briefcase from when he was in the Navy. It makes me look like a businessman from the 1960’s- either that or a spy. I like the idea of being a spy. Although, I expect not many covert operatives are called upon to infiltrate the inner sanctum of Mind’s charity shop in the High Street. Not unless it’s some front for a terrorist cell or an organisation with a menacing acronym.

It does make me feel semi-important though. Mum says it completes my ensemble. She uses that word a lot when she’s watching Gok’s TV program. I do think my Crombie coat and briefcase lends me an air of authority and aloofness. Just the qualities one would expect in a Charity Shop Manager. My co-workers could learn a lot from my sartorial style, especially Darren who looks like he was born in his grubby black duffel coat and Hi-Leg German Paratrooper Boots. I know Margaret says he’s had ‘lots of problems’, but I still think he could dress better.      

I’m almost there now - just one steep hill and a cobbled street to negotiate. If I was in charge of roads and highways I’d ban cobbles altogether. Sure, they look pretty enough, and hark back to halcyon days of yore. I can’t believe I just said Yore, or for that matter halcyon. Cobbles belong in two places - automotive proving grounds and corny bread adverts. Anywhere else and they’re just foot-jarring monstrosities designed to trip and twist one’s ankle.

I can even feel them through my second-hand leather brogues. Before you say it, I did oven-bake them for two hours, (on the advice of Margaret) who says they came from a very respectable ex-Mason called Mr Sloane. She cherry-picked them for me, after I complimented her on her new elasticated jogging bottoms.

I hope there are lots of bin-liners sitting on the doorstep. Darren calls them Black Magic. Well, he would wouldn’t he. He’s obsessed with all things enchanted or Goblin related. Yesterday, during coffee break he bored me rigid with his account of a battle against the dark forces of Elfingor, and kept banging on about becoming some sort of Pink Wizard with a charmed unbreakable staff.  He got so animated and excited; you’d think he’d won the Lottery. Ten minutes later he’s sitting by the cash register, staring at his shoe laces and pulling hangnails.

Here we are. “Mind the gap!” I always say that when I step over the bags of donated clothes and shoes. No one gets it. Sometimes I even make two or three entrances just to see if anyone notices- they never do. It looks like Margaret’s already hard at work, looking for discarded doggy jumpers and fancy cat collars. I’ve lost count of the times I’ve told her people won’t donate pet-clothes to a mental health charity shop. I mean, when did you last see a Schizophrenic wearing a red kerchief embroidered with ‘Mommy’s little helper’?

I’d better give her a hand before she turns the place into a teenager’s bedroom.

          “Good Morning Margaret.”

          “Not yet.”

          “Excuse me?”

          “It’s not a good morning yet. I’ll tell you when it is.”

          “Ok. Do you fancy a coffee?”

          “We’re all out. Darren had the last cup this morning.” Darren likes his coffee. He says it helps him concentrate. If I consumed 12 to 15 cups of black sugary treacle, topped up with hot water I’m sure I’d concentrate myself into a cardiac arrest, or an ulcer, or both. I bet he sweats caffeine.

          “It’s lucky I bought my Aladdin Flask with me today.” This flask has been tested by the American armed forces and is guaranteed to work, even if you drop it from a height of five feet. The secret’s in the design - a stainless steel sleeve, surrounded by a vacuum, and definitely no glass. If I had a pound for every flask that’s failed the drop test. This morning, I filled it right up to the top. It will hold, (wait for it) seven mugs. And not your cheap, all china, and no mug mugs either. I’ve tested it. And no, I don’t work for Aladdin.

          “You take sugar, don’t you Margaret?”

          “Sweetener, half a sachet.”  Oh, I forgot, Margaret’s dieting. She generally diets every Wednesday morning after going to her Weight Watchers meeting every Tuesday night. By my reckoning she must be into her eighth year now. 

          “Where is Darren anyway?” I ask, tentatively.

          “He’s trying stuff on upstairs.” Oh crap! I’m not in the mood for Darren and his dressing up. Last Friday he decided it might be cool to try and put on all the new clothes at once. He said it required a lot of skill and meticulous planning to get the layering just right. He also said, “It’s no good squeezing into three Fair Isle cardy’s and then slipping on an M&S negligee. It won’t look or feel right.”  I couldn’t fault his logic. When he emerged from behind the changing curtain he looked like someone who’d rolled down a steep hill made of clothes, completely naked and covered in Super Glue. He said even though it was incredibly hot and suffocating he felt a sense of achievement at having accomplished the impossible. Margaret said a band of angry Grizzly Bears could attack him and he probably wouldn’t even notice. I wish she hadn’t said that because Darren started waddling out of the shop determined to find something savage to test her theory. Thankfully, he only made it twenty feet before the cobbles got him.

          “Morning Darren.”

          “Morning Peter.”

          “What do you think?” What do I think? I think if anyone other than myself and Margaret sees you dressed like this, they’ll more than likely call social services and the police.

          “Can I ask if this character has a name?” Please let it not be who I think it is?

          “Parvan the Pink of course. Do you like my staff? I Sellotaped three walking sticks together and used some old nail varnish for the business end – see?” 

          “Very Good Darren. Where did you find the robes?”

          “I found this big old nursing cape in the back room and modified it. Not bad eh?” The Paddington Bear wall clock behind the counter says eighty fifty five. Five minutes isn’t enough time to talk him out of his pink wizard get up. I’d better send him upstairs and hope he comes out of character before the regulars start coming in. Luckily, Margaret and I are on the same page and she gives Darren two heavy bags to sort through.

          “You know that scene in Fantasia…?” I have to stop him there, before he starts waving his staff around like some transvestite Harry Potter.

          “Just have a rummage through this lot, will your Darren? You never know you might find some sacred amulet to complete your ensemble,” (thanks Mum). Darren retreats to the rear of the shop and both Margaret and I set about opening up. I suspect the drizzle will bring people inside. You never know, there might be some genuine shoppers amongst all the moochers and malingerers. Yesterday an old lady (not a regular) had the temerity to try and haggle with me. The size 14 Debenhams skirt was only priced at £1.50p. She said the Homeless Cat place three doors down lets her haggle. Even when I explained about our ‘no haggle’ policy she just tutted and put the skirt back on the rail. I’d like to see her find a skirt for the same price in that smelly cat basket.

All the detritus is cleared away and the open sign is turned round. Margaret and I stand side by side in front of the till and wait, our arms folded and our backs straight. I always insist on this little ritual because I think it projects a certain air of efficiency and openness. Darren comes to join us; minus his wizard costume and for the first time I’m pleased to have a middle-aged, overweight, dishevelled German storm trooper at my side.

So here we all are. Ready to face another hectic day, filled with mystery and intrigue. The mystery bit is my favourite.  Some people prefer to dump their donations at the door and leave without saying a word. I like to think such people are the ‘recently bereaved’ and they probably feel sad enough already without announcing to all and sundry that they’ve ‘just popped in to drop off their dead Dad’s old suits’. Sometimes we find hospital I.D bracelets in the pockets, as well as half-eaten tubes of Mints. When this happens I try and picture the owner, full of life, striding down a street, sucking the life out of a menthol sweet. If I’m lucky enough to be in the vision I might say ‘Good Morning Mr Jones’ (if there’s an I.D bracelet). If not I just make one up.

You see, everything that comes through our door has a story to tell. From well-loved Teddy Bears to Magazine Racks. They’ve all been touched by humanity. Margaret says that we get the stuff no-one wants, but I disagree. I’m convinced that there are people out there, kind people who donate things because they want someone else to enjoy them as they have. It’s like when somebody brings in a pile of old books with notes pencilled in the margin and beautiful sentences underlined. They’re passing on a bit of themselves.

Only the other day, a frail, old gentleman bought in two pairs of ladies patent-leather dancing shoes. None of them had been worn. They were all tissue wrapped and boxed, in pristine condition. I could tell he only had one real leg because the other didn’t bend at the knee and he threw it out sideways when he walked. When he placed the boxes on the counter I noticed his right sleeve was partially rolled back. I could just make out two small numbers tattooed on his fore arm, in faded blue ink.

Green Therapy

“An early morning walk is a blessing for the whole day” (Henry David Thoreau)

Walkers the world over will tell you about their favourite journeys. These vary from the type where you need an ordinance survey map and all-weather gear to the ‘stroll around a country lane’ variety where all you require is an open mind and the desire to lace up a pair of stout shoes. Me, well I belong to a growing band of bipeds who participate in ‘green therapy’ which is in essence - walking in the countryside for improved mental and physical well being.

Some ramblers will tell you it concentrates the mind and allows them to organise their thoughts for the day ahead. Others take the opposite stance and say it affords them too much thinking time and they prefer a more structured distraction, such as a competitive sport or pastime. I walk because it fuels my imagination, feeds my soul and gives me a basic fitness level. Only today I was treated to an ear-numbing wind and the rain washed clarity of a bright December morning. I have a number of different walks of varying lengths and surroundings to indulge myself in. I suppose I am fortunate at being able to explore the many permutations of hill, canal, wood, track, field and lake depending on how I feel on any one day. Today it was a simple stroll along the canal towpath.

I could tell it was a boat-free morning by the lack of oil on the water and the absence of churned up weed. The mallards and Canada geese were bickering over aquatic real estate in a man made basin adjacent to the canal while bored adolescents paddled through the still water, leaving tiny bow waves in their wake like eloquent graffiti blurring the ash and sycamores near perfect reflections.  As I walked along the narrow tarmac footpath I had an uninterrupted view over a low hawthorn hedge where a young heron was spearing a small shallow pool of rainwater in the vain hope of some breakfast. On the opposite bank a jay was attempting to play off ground tick with a grumpy magpie who ‘tack –tacked’ his disapproval at such a pointless, infantile pursuit.

The only fly in my perambulatory ointment was a burgeoning heel blister, pulling my mind away from this quiet, beautiful scene towards thoughts of antiseptic ointment and band aids. I slackened the drawstring on my walking shoe in an effort to reduce the friction, which helped a little and proffered a ‘good morning’ to a  dog walking regular who nodded silently, pulling in the leash of a dove grey  Weimaraner that sniffed the air disdainfully. I glanced at my watch and did a quick mental calculation on how long it would take to get back. Twenty minutes to the lock keepers cottage, which I’d just passed meant I should do a u-turn and be back just in time for the breakfast dishes and wheelie bin patrol

Sadly, there is always a point at which thoughts of home and daily routine gate-crashes my consciousness. Like the arc of an arrow that cannot resist the pull of gravity I reluctantly turn around and start to retrace my steps. A wise aunt once told me to “never resist the urge to perform a sideways glance” She said it was amazing what you could discover, even in fairly familiar surroundings. She was also an advocate of the slightly more problematic ‘head back eyes skyward’ manoeuvre which she said proved invaluable during a recent sojourn to Italy as an antidote to the more mundane tour guides as well as a way of spotting new and exciting architecture. My sideways glance unearthed a rather interesting overgrown wall where someone had substituted every third or fourth brick with a green or brown bottle. Maybe this was out of necessity due to a lack of suitable masonry, but I like to think it was done intentionally so that in the early morning light the translucent blue and amber bottles glowed like giant jewels. I was almost tempted to give them a polish to accentuate the effect, but again I resisted as homeward thoughts tugged at my brain like a naughty child at its own birthday party.

The blister on my foot began shouting again so I pulled off the shoe to inspect a red stain on my sock about the size of a fifty pence piece. The return journey became a weird form of hopscotch punctuated with the timeless standing on one leg shoe removal exercise, as I sidestepped my way haplessly towards the waiting canal. Thankfully I didn’t fall in. I decided that the safest option was to walk shoeless through the side streets leading to my house. Luckily  I didn’t meet anyone on the way back and decided to adopt my Aunt Joan’s final attitude of “staring at the floor to avoid eye contact with strangers” just in case a shard of broken glass or some omnipresent dog poo decided to get in on the act. I chuckled to myself, imagining what all the horses, sheep, cows, birds must have thought looking at the poor pathetic figure hobbling home carrying a single shoe. For once, I was the one being stared at, not them – the observer was now the observed. As I opened the wrought iron gate leading to the front door I waved at my elderly neighbour standing at the window. There was a brief pause while she bent down. After a few seconds she reappeared waving a pink mule.

Blisters aside, I still enjoy my ‘green therapy’ walk each morning and never now what a sideways glance may throw up or for that matter what surprises are in store as I lace up my stout shoes and prepare to free my mind.