It’s all happening around here, a bit like one of those corny films where the gods set the pieces in motion. The pawns have a sense that things are changing, but are clueless as to how it might all pan out. Will they get washed away in a tsunami or wild sex in a Jacuzzi? Will the tsunami wash them away to a tropical paradise? Will they catch gonorrhoea from their good times?
Luckily, my life is not that exciting. Nick has another job with the Council, but no idea of what the salary will be and little idea of what the job involves. I might be going on holiday at Easter, although I have no passport, money, or beachwear. The volume of work for Uni is multiplying, and I’ve been doing some work towards it, but not really understanding if what I’ve been up to has been any use for the forthcoming exams. My efforts towards the willowpattern embroidery project are looking splendid. That’s the bit of my life that I’m confident about. I’m a bit overwhelmed and still ill with my wheezy chest so my skittish brain is coming up with all sorts of nonsense.
A bit of sunshine makes everything look better. It’s quite a lot to ask it to make my part of Coventry look good though, and the same goes for the citizens of Coventry. We are an exceptional grouping of humanity. It’s as though we style ourselves on our flea ridden feral pigeons. Sorry if I’m offending any of my vast Coventry readership (heaven knows I can’t afford to lose any of you), but come on..you know it’s true.
One afternoon this week, I saw someone who was genuinely beautiful. This never-ever happens in Spon End. A young woman, long-legged and slender, wearing denim shorts that were short but not sleazy was walking in flat pumps towards the subway. Her honey-coloured skin caught the afternoon light, the gloss from her dark hair dazzled, even her elbows were attractive. Down she went, into the urine soaked depths, seeming to float above the debris of takeaway cartons and vomit. I had never seen her before, and that shouldn’t be a surprise in a city of 3.8 million but after a while in one place, you get to know the faces and types. Perhaps she was an alien being, shaped to blend in, who had based her research on the beaches of Miami but crash-landed west of Matalan. Maybe she was a goddess who had the fancy to get down with the mortals but couldn’t face the full garbage feeding disguise.
I feared as I walked behind her that I was having a bizarre middle aged moment of reversed sexuality. Seeking reassurance I looked about me to notice that everyone who Angel passed turned to look at her once, then twice, and then a shamefaced third time. Some stumbled, some stopped breathing. One, his arm unexpectedly lifeless, dropped his phone. The old ladies with their shopping trolleys, the homeless in their anoraks, the girls pushing buggies with shopping on the back, youths in tracksuits, men in suits, hippie would-bes in unpressed linen, all of us affected. Angel looked neither right nor left, but climbed the steps and went on fast past the nightclubs and hairdressers. I glanced away and then back, but she had gone, probably shimmering before she vanished into a silver orb.
Surely she wasn’t heading for Primark?
Coventry does have an exceptionally good Primark. Is that enough of a draw for a space-alien-angel-goddess though?
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