Sam arrived yesterday so I speedily finished writing and left you to rest in my bag. I don't quite know if it was due to embarrassment or not wanting to appear rude. Probably a mixture of the two. It was breezy and getting cool so we walked to town with the intention of going to the usual watering hole. I had forgotten it was a Sunday and it was closed. So we floated back to the park were we had met in the first place, Sam rode his sister's bike slowly, struggling to stay on board. The sun was back and it washed over the park bringing with it an army of people, dogs and babies trying to enjoy the day while they still had chance. We found a hole in the hedge surrounding the unoccupied care takers house, which was boarded up but not covered in graffiti, a reasonably strange thing to notice. In a small garden was a petite private patch of overgrown ivy and weeds, the trees gathered a roof above our heads with gaps and holes where the light beamed down in stripes of heat. We sat down on the ivy carpet and each made a joint. We were at the edge and the only thing separating us from the street was plant life. It felt sneaky. We soon moved on to a spot of dirt and roots at the waters edge. We sat facing the sun, the scene and the ducks. There was plenty of small, downy ducklings learning the ways of the world. Sam lit his and we passed it back and forth while discussing various scenarios, trying to understand what each duck was going through. They weren't so removed from us and our actions. We watched the humorous displays of masculine authority, a miniature mother and father fended off a big feathery yob and protected their babies well. I soon lit mine. Then, out of nowhere we witnessed a conception. There was a cloud of noise. I looked up to see a raft or drakes with only one female. Two or three pecked and nipped at the back of her neck as she struggled to stand, while one male mounted her back, flapping and screeching with excitement. He finished and another one clambered for his turn. She seemed to hate all this and was resisting and yelling for help. They were all having a go. It was uncomfortable to see and the whole ordeal was terribly violent. Eventually she managed to squirm free. She clumbsily flew off and the lads gave chase. We sat there silent and horrified yet I felt blessed by this insight into the cruel life of a duck.
We smiled and smoked and let the sun flood our eyes. The bright light illuminated my pale skin and for the first time in ages, I felt glad to be out where there were people. We spied enormous clouds shimmying toward us. The silver highlights sprawling across the dense blanket of floss. I sensed a single, cool droplet on my skin and knew we were in for a substantial downpour. We wandered over to the new band stand which sat proudly on a mound of green. It looked out over the entire pond. We waited for the rain to arrive and cut through the muggy atmosphere. I felt safe and watched the wet clear the field and benches of folk. The ducks didn't care. They had bigger things on their plate.
An older man, a broken, slightly dirty man approached us from the hill behind us. We said Hello and he put down his bag of cider and sheltered with us. We slowly fell into a conversation with him, despite my first gut reaction of ever so well hidden fear. He mentioned he had epilepsy and I immediately thought of my mother. I shot that thought point blank and out of my path and focused on what the old man had to say. He complained of brain damage and had on a pair of sunglasses with only one arm. He claimed to have a PHD and confessed to having taught university students and had been all over the world. He wasn't ashamed of being an alcoholic and didn't make any excuses to justify his decline into alcoholism and homelessness. He did, however, want to make it abundantly clear he "didn't do crime." He told of how he was born here in Lincolnshire and lived in various villages till he was eighteen. He left out huge gaps which made me wonder if it was all a fib but I didn't question him and let him have his fifteen minutes of fame. He seemed a kind person but was very keen to correct anything I said. I didn't take offence. I just didn't say much else. He said he was thinking of settling here and explained he was staying in a drop in house and was just out to get away from the unsavory characters that occupied the other rooms. I asked "Why here?" He informed me that I was probably blind to see how pleasant and kind the people of Grimsby and Cleethorpes are because I have lived here since forever. I instantly thought of all the negative in GRIMsby and events that have confirmed my hatred. A visitor doesn't see the entirety of a town. They see the pretty fluorescent bulbs of the amusement arcades and eat the renowned fish and chips. Maybe he was right. Maybe I was. Either way there is room for both qualities in most towns. It's the ratio that has the effect. Grimsby has it's share of shit bags and is most definitely a dump but this one man's opinion made me realise how much Grimsby has changed in an anti social behaviour kind of way. A small improvement. This park was no exception. It used to be full of Perverts and bored teenage aggressors. He piped on for quite a while so I chain smoked role ups till he had run dry of cigarettes and asked directions for the nearest shop. The rain had let up but we didn't leave, we returned to our spot at the roots of the tree and smoked another till it was time, for us both and the sun, to leave.
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