Deep and crisp and even

Photo by Dug Blane

Three o' clock on a chilly Christmas morning. A woman laden with parcels strides along empty avenues, their wet pavements silver and gold in the streetlights. Occasionally she darts an apprehensive glance behind, before strolling swiftly on. 

Fifty yards back, two dark figures freeze in mid-step, like cartoon characters, every time she does so, before resuming their pursuit. "Slow down, man," the taller one says, wheezing loudly. "You'll give me a heart attack."

"You should lay off the cigarettes," the other replies. "At least you're warm in that big coat. I can't feel my legs. Whose daft notion was this anyway?"

Minutes before it had seemed a great idea, after Anne had set off into the night, refusing to let any of us big, strong men accompany her. She had a point. Chuck was lounging on the sofa at an angle of forty-five degrees, drinking beer and looking fuzzy. I was in an armchair opposite, trying to remember my middle name.

"I'll be fine," she said. "You'll only hold me back and we'll likely all get mugged. I'll be home before the two of you can stand up straight."

The sound of the front door closing behind her seemed to galvanise Chuck. "I'm going after her," he says, leaping to his feet like a young gazelle, then toppling slowly sideways, like a young gazelle that's had ten pints of Guinness, and saving himself by grabbing the standard lamp.

"I don't like women wombling around at night on their own," he says, screwing up his face and trying harder. "Wandering," he says. "It's not wight."

"I'm with you, Elmer," I say, hauling myself vertical and heading for the door.

"Oh my God," Susan says. "Batman and Robin. At least take your jacket," she says, handing it to me. "Don't frighten her and get back here before the New Year."

"Which one am I?" Chuck says, as we head into the deserted streets. 

"You're Robin," I say.

"Why do I have to be Robin?" he says.

"Because you're a follower," I say. "I'm a natural leader - fearless and decisive with a powerful personality."

"And a Batmobile," he says, nodding to my Vauxhall Corsa parked on the road.

"Sarcasm doesn't suit Robin," I say. "There's no sign of her. We're going to have to run." 

Around two corners we catch sight of Anne not far ahead and go into our freezing and wheezing routine, since she's going to be really annoyed if she sees us.

"This is daft," Chuck says, when we've let her put some distance between us. "I can't breathe. If someone jumped her, I could only shout 'Stop that or I'll come and get you in five minutes!'"

"It's more than I could do," I say. "We've lost her again."

"Oh bugger," he says and sets off, before I can stop him, in a long slow lope like that used by his ancient ancestors on the African savannah, to eat up the miles and hunt down their prey.

Unfortunately Chuck's prey has heard him coming and is waiting behind a privet hedge, with a parcel of mince pies in a Tesco plastic bag. 

"Is he dead?" I say, when I round the corner and find Anne leaning over his supine body, spreadeagled on the pavement.

"Don't be stupid," she says. "Mild concussion at worst. What did you idiots think you were playing at? You scared the life out of me."

"We were providing you with manly protection from nameless dangers of the night," I say.

"The only dangers around here tonight are you and him," she says.

"Just a small piece of chocolate cake, madam," Chuck says, sitting up and looking around. "Your lights are a little bright this evening."

"That's more sense than he usually makes," I say. "He'll be fine. We'll see you inside your house, then be on our way. Unless you'd like to repay us by inviting us in for a nightcap."

A gust of wind blows her reply away, catching her front door at the same time and slamming it firmly in our faces. We turn and head for Susan's house. 

"I think that went well," Chuck says. "We don't need to give them all the details. Anne home, job done about covers it."

"I think so," I say. "While the world sleeps we walk the streets, keeping the town safe for the civilised."

"Gratitude is a gift," Chuck says. "Thanks are a bonus. The work itself is its own reward." 

"Have you any idea where we are?" I say, coming to a halt and recognising nothing.

"I'm afraid not, Batman," he says. "I was following you."

Fearless and decisive, I pull my phone from my pocket and call us a cab.

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Elmer Fudd sings Bruce Springsteen.

Saints and sinners

You can't communicate the experience gained from hard years on Earth to the fresh-faced youths who come behind you. 

It's one of those frustrating facts of life you wish someone had mentioned, when you were young. Except you wouldn't have listened.

Makes you wonder what experience is for. I mean if you can't pass it on and you can't take it with you, it's pretty pointless isn't it?

God didn't think this through, if you ask me. Omniscient and omnipotent perhaps, but a pretty poor planner.

There's so much I want to share with the next generation and the one after that. My son. Rachel. Carol. Chuck and Marie. Little Sally. Even Susan sometimes, when she seems especially young and trusting.

Stuff like this. If you get dumped he wasn't the one. Alone doesn't mean lonely. Be kind to kids and animals. Don't eat yellow snow. 

And never hold post-mortems on the pub quiz you just made a complete arse of.

Especially that one. I've seen marriages and fast friendships ruined by too much analysis of who said what, and why they didn't write it down like they were told to. Let it go, guys.

"Why did you score out 'fisherman' and write 'carpenter', in answer to 'What was St Andrew's trade?' Susan asks young Chuck. "Nobody gave you the authority to do that. I told you he was a fisherman."

"He said 'carpenter'," the lad says, jerking his thumb in my direction. "And he'd answered the last five questions. I figured he was on a roll."

"You should be on a roll," she says. "You're about as smart as a slice of cheese."

"He sounded so confident," Chuck says.

"He always sounds confident. The more confident he sounds the less you should listen to him."

"Can I say a word for the defence?" I say.

"If you must," Susan says, in that tone that makes strong men quiver, before remembering they're not supposed to be scared of women.

"Fisherman is not a trade," I say. "When did anyone spend five years as a fisherman's apprentice?"

"That's true," Chuck says, taking his lead from me, the fool. "I reckon carpentering was Andrew's trade. Fishing was just his hobby."

"Sounds right," I say. "He and Jesus used to go down the canal with a can of maggots and their fishing-rods, and sit on the bank chatting about the Celtic game."

"And Andrew made boats out of balsa wood, for the disciples to play with on the Sea of Galilee," Chuck says. "That's why historians got confused and thought he was a fisherman."

"We lost the competition by one point because of you two dummies," Susan says. "And you think it's funny?"

"I don't think it's funny," I say, nudging him with my elbow.

"I don't think it's funny," he says, trying to look serious.

"Say you're sorry," I tell him.

"I'm sorry," he says. But he doesn't have the sense to leave it at that, and like I say you can't communicate experience to young people. They have to take their own lumps.
 
"There is no need to get cross," he tells her, looking pleased with himself. "Did you see what I did there?"

"Just as well I'm a saint," she tells him, kicking his shins under the table. "Did you feel what I did there?"