ALL THE THINGS THAT MAKE US LAUGH AND CRY

Before I forget, I want to write about something I saw the other day. I was walking back from the station. I'd lost my headphones (again) and had my iPod next to my ear playing WU LYF as loud as I could without distressing the old people in my village too much. The old people were nowhere. It was six. Curtains closed, gates locked just in case MOAT or HUNGERFORD or CUMBRIA happens in Brent Knoll. I'll say it now, because it's expected.

That will never happen. Not here. Not to us. We don't belong in the newspapers. Even the post office's local headlines are never about Brent Knoll. This week it's about molestation on Burnham sea front. My mum said - something. She remarked.

I was walking and Heavy Pop had just ended. I heard some more music in the background. It sounded like some weird jaunty arabic music that had been composed by a drug-stuffed Tinkerbell. Whenever I hear music outside in the village, I tut. There's a party. The other day I went outside of my back door and I head 'Tik Tok'. I tutted, went up to my room and thought about the weird sex games that the old people must get up to.

Kesha does that to me. Music outside does that to me, but only in the village. Villages are places where life doesn't happen. Or, life happens in a structured and safe environment. Once a month with the bazaar, once a year with the wassail.

LIFEDOESN'TGETMUCHMOREEXCITINGTHANTHIS

Christ. I'm stretching this anecdote.

When I got closer (this all took about 10 seconds by the way) I heard that the song was, in fact, Cyndi Lauper's 'Time After Time' and the wind had somehow distorted it. I was walking past the open gates of the house expecting to see some children running around, a BBQ, men in hats with cigars and cider, other men laughing with men at the BBQ, women with wine, men looking at other men and laughing and then shouting something about football just in case someone thought that the look was, in fact, underlined by homoeroticism. Which it was. Sausages burning and punch.

There was one car in the driveway.

There was one fat woman dancing in her garden.

And I wanted to dance with her. To go through the gates, dance for a bit, find some wine to quaff and then, when her husband comes out, she can say 'This is Will, my new friend' and we would have laughed and it would have been a bit awkward but, heck, I love those ransom connections. And I always pretend that I have lots of them.

I always speak to people at bus stops, or meet people at parties. But nothing sticks.

Olives on the verandah. Dreams.

There was a road sign opposite the gates, one with black and white arrows. There was tar smeared in shots on the white of the sign.

I walked on. In my mind, she's still dancing.