The Sad Old Gentleman

The house feels so quiet now. Silent but not still somehow, as if the memories of a life shared are still swirling, circling the rooms. In the air, ingrained in the furniture, wafting around me.

Leslie always had such a calm energy, that’s what attracted me I suppose. I’m ashamed to say that I lead a somewhat promiscuous life before we met. In those days if there was a party anywhere in town, you would find me at the centre of it. An immature twenty-five year old who was so scared he may miss out on something that he crammed his life full of every hedonistic activity he could find. Yet it wasn’t until our introduction that evening that it occurred to me how empty I had been.

The soothing effect I felt with Leslie was instant. Those eyes that suddenly made everything stand still, just for the splittest of seconds. Dancing with enthusiasm and laughter. A touch gentler than I had never experienced before. I was hooked.

I put the party days behind me. Months turned to years and slipped by, but I wasn’t bothered. I was a happy man. Sure, we had our rows. Some of them horrendous in fact, inflicting the kind of pain of that can only be achieved by someone who truly holds your heart. But there was never any doubt we were soulmates. The home we bought together and painstakingly made our own. The garden that was Leslie’s pride and joy. That was all testament to our love.

When Leslie got sick we were determined to maintain normality for as long as possible. Mind-numbing days in bed got us both down but the passion was still there. Eventually the vitality I had loved before was there only in spirit. I’d sit at the bedside and read aloud while those delicate features winced with pain. Each day the protrusion of cheekbones worsened and I would gently stroke them, skin as soft as rumpled tissue paper.

I still hear Leslie’s voice, that last soft gasp, clutching my hand. “I don’t blame you Derek. I don’t regret a second”. And then he was gone. Leaving me with nothing but this empty house that was once our loving home and sanctuary. And the guilt that my reckless teenage foolishness resulted in this unspeakable disease which has stolen not only my freedom, but now also the man I loved.

The Dancing Drunk of Stockwell

Yeah I see you checking my moves. Pretty hot huh? It takes work, I’m not going to lie to you. Practice, practice, practice, day in, day out. It’s a hard graft, standing outside the tube, busting my moves for six hours a day. True, sometimes I do move the show across the road to outside the Post Office but that’s purely to challenge myself, you understand. Those old dears queuing up for their pensions are a tough crowd and I like to take it to the next level. Damn this cider is refreshing…Boop do do dee dooop.

It’s you, my adoring audience, who keep me going. You’re the reason I rise at 6am and drag myself out of the squat to the station. Some days without even having the time to shower myself, but you probably don’t realise that. No, it’s not the smack. I don’t know what you’re referring to. Ok, if you insist, another cider would be smashing…Boop do do dee doooop.

I’ve always had natural rhythm. And style. I’ve got it so right now that I don’t even bother changing anymore. Why mess with the perfection of baggy low-slung red pants and a white(ish) t-shirt? My favourite dealer gave me this cap too and I feel it tops the whole thing off pretty nicely. Gives me a Run DMC vibe, right?

It’s a lonely job though. People are understandably intimidated by my talent and tend to keep their distance a bit. I can see it in their faces, it’s almost like they’ve just caught a whiff of a bad smell. But I’m a performer and the show must go on. Now where is my supporting artist Mr Strongbow? Ahh here you are old pal…boop do dee doooop dooop.

The Iceland Check-out Girl

Well it’s your own fault. How was I supposed to know that your value-range baby rusks didn’t belong to the pensioner in front of you if you don’t put the divider down? And don’t pretend you were too busy flicking through that magazine to notice, we all know you aren’t going to buy it. Good Housekeeping, as if. It’s plain to see you’re more of a Take A Break kind of woman.

Bulk-buying on the chocolate digestives again are we? No wonder those kids look like they’re rotting from the inside out, amount of sugar you must stick down their scrawny throats. While we’re on the subject, please extract that small one from the bagging area. I can see his sticky little hands reaching for my carefully arranged pile of carriers and I would so hate for him to accidently suffocate in one. My shift ends in ten and I’m not waiting around to try to resuscitate the blighter.

I can see you hiding the laxatives behind that jumbo pack of Potato Smilies too you know. You don’t fool me. Trying a piece of fruit for once in your life might help. Honestly, ask anyone, I’m not judgmental at all; but Jamie Oliver really was wasting his bloody time with you wasn’t he? There’s more nutrition in the ring pulls of your Stella cans than there is in these six boxes of budget fish fingers.

While you struggle to fit that last box of sugar-encrusted corn flakes into your bag, I’ll just sit here and take a guess at how many coupons are waiting for me in your badly-made knock-off Vuitton wallet.

“Do you have a Clubcard, Madam? Oh what a lovely purse…”