We start with going down the park.
The lockable bollards have been pulled up and discarded; the grass has been churned up by tyres and there is rubbish all over the place. Travellers have visited, we assume.
Thee are crows all over the place, too. We walk to the usual spot and dump cut-up chicken scraps and leftover couscous salad. The birds lose no time getting stuck in, though only a minority; the rest are hungry spectators. Alphas and betas, eh.
An Asian man walks past, his little boy proudly showing us a found pound in his fist. The man says he’s been off work for a week and spent his last twenty on fuel for his taxi; he’s not sure what he’s going to earn in the next few days.
And so to Stratford.
The waterside market has many stalls selling clothes, knick-knacks and food. We order a couple of somosas from a Sikh and while they are being prepared by his assistant we chat. Some of the things he says:
All cities should be like this (S-on-A, on a jolly Bank Holiday.)
He doesn’t like what’s happening to Birmingham (he lives not far fom us). He lowers his voice and says they’re letting too many in.
He is disconcerted to learn that the large pub across from our house has been turned into a mosque. He’d seen the refurbishing and thought another brewery was taking over.
The young need employment. His helper turns out to be his son who got a first class honours degree in biomedical science and now can’t get a job.
I say there’s rumours of another general election, maybe this October. He says we don’t need a change of government, we need action.
We buy a paper bag of swan food from a kiosk by the river. One swan pecks three others; the corrupting effects of charity. They follow us as we move downriver.
We get on the last hand-operated chain ferry in Britain. One passenger has a little dog and is carrying a two-foot bull’s pizzle that the dog had claimed with joy as soon as he saw it. The man says the bottom bit is bone but bull penises don’t have one.
Halfway across I tell my wife to drop her phone and passport in the stream. She says I won’t pass for fifteen; I reply that I’ve shaved.
And so back to home, and reality.
