Wee man just scored the winner, 20-18, in the garden cup.
When did he get so good?
Running circles ’round the old man. Rainbow flicks and nutmegs. Almost make me wish I’d gone easier on him in those first games.
Hear you calling from the kitchen: “It’s ready!”
Toasted cheese or roasted cheese? Cheese on toast… We never could agree.
And a spot on the couch, your smile, your laugh, as you steal the best seat.
Your eyes smiling, 20 years of love, as you turn on the TV. Everyone Loves Raymond, family favourite, a Channel 4 special, familiar as the Ayrshire rain.
Writing lists: Top 5 songs. Top 5 taxi rides. Top 5 bars. Top 5 boozy nights I can remember…
Top 5 places I woke up.
At the bar: As the light stole in, Like a thief. Her smiling, We need to get out of here.
In her bed: Ayrshire Rain at the window, Our bodies tangled. Under the covers. Never want to leave. I have to leave now.
On a bench outside the station: With the rain coming down. And a note in my pocket. And a ticket home. And a hangover. Like an old friend. And the ticket inspector looking confused, Did you sleep here last night?
Aye pal, with a guitar case for a pillow.
Now I just need to hear the rhythm of the train tracks, Like a steady snare.
On the beach: First rays of an Ayrshire morning Guitar next to me, Notebook filled with songs. Dreams. Early walker looking at me like, What the fuck?
Here with you: I’m older now, I was younger then. I’ve learned a little, Just enough. There’s nowhere I’d rather be.
Across the bar, Ami was flicking through her notebook of songs and lyrics, glancing at the empty glass and empty seat opposite her.
They would have to play fucking Idlewild at the end of a breakup. Fuck it. It was done.
Call me a fucking bitch. Prick. He’ll be away home to tell his maw all about it. Either that or he’ll be back for an acting award.
She pushed her specs back up her nose and swallowed hard. How the fuck are people together for forty years? she wondered. What the fuck do they talk about?
I mean, come on, dating a dentist? Plenty of money, but the chat? Christ. Putting my guitars away. Fuck off. The cheek of it.
Ah well, fuck him. What’s done is done.
She had lost some security maybe but now she had her freedom. Fair trade.
She browsed her phone; there was the listing. Wednesday night. The open mic would be on down the road. It had been a while, but she had a new song that she was aching to let out into the world.
She looked over to the bar and saw Lauren holding court. She wondered about all the Idlewild songs tonight; it seemed unusual for this bar. Normally it’s all new songs and rock and roll.
She got up and walked to the door. She heard the two lads arguing about Led Zeppelin and online, but she kept walking out into the cold Glasgow night.
She walked along the pavements as the streetlights lit up, and she could hear the thud of bass from the Riverside Dome.
Sometimes I feel like I’m standing on the edge of a volcano.
The silence of the night. Weighs you down. Sometimes it makes it hard to breathe.
I felt like if you whispered then the whole world would hear.
But you knew it couldn’t be true. Could it?
I watched the cold, steady rain fall through the early hours.
The light reflected on the puddles and cracked pavements as daylight bled in.
The streets were empty, the silence broken by an occasional ambulance as it sped up the street . Its lights flashing, siren howling at the crossroads.
Life and death. In a moment.
I sat by the window. I’d been up most of the night.
Sleep had become like a fugitive lover you could no longer depend on. Here and then gone, with no guarantees when it would be back.
My brain was running ragged, worrying about everything and nothing all at once. In an exhausting battle with itself.
I’d given up trying to sleep and got myself a coffee. It sat untouched on the window frame. That smell used to give me comfort.
Now, like so much of life, it just drifted past.
A little mountain of silver packaging sat next to the coffee cup, my constant companions. Pills to slow a racing heart, antidepressants, and sleeping pills. The doctor had scared me off the sleeping pills. They were very addictive, so I should take one or two and then stop.
How bad could it be?
Bad.
It felt like I was back at the volcano’s edge again.
I was already hung up on insomnia and everything else. I really didn’t want an addiction to pills to go with it. But I’m not a doctor. Maybe I should have just gone for it.
The room was cold, and I noticed my breath in front of me.
I picked up my notebook. The page screamed back at me. Empty. Line after line. A song unwritten.
Words unsaid.
I looked out the window and saw a milk float making its way up the street.
Had I slipped some gap in time? Who gets milk delivered these days? It made its way up the street but didn’t stop at any houses.
Just kept going.
Was I dreaming?
I caught my reflection in the window. My beard was a little greyer. A few more lines on my face. But I didn’t recognise my eyes.
The brilliant blue was gone. Just dulled and faded.
A scream built up inside me. My heart raced.
I opened my mouth but no sound came.
Silence.
I drew in a deep breath, closed my eyes, and tried again. There was a small rumble, which quickly evaporated to nothing as the breath escaped my lungs.
Emptiness. Everywhere.
I wanted to dial 999. Call an ambulance. Call a doctor. Call someone. Anyone.
My words choked me as I looked around desperately, my hands at my throat.
I watched as the number 22 bus made its way up the street. I saw the lights. People setting about their day. Travelling into work.
I tapped on the window. I hit the window as hard as I could, but no one noticed.
I slumped back in my seat, exhausted. My arms fell heavy to my sides as I felt the sweat rolling down my forehead. It felt like my head was melting as I looked into the window. It seemed like the world was shrinking and my face was disappearing.
Into nothing.
I looked around the room.
My guitar stretched out, losing its shape, melting before my eyes.
The room began to bend and stretch, losing all shape. An endless emptiness stretching as far as I could see . In every direction. Forward and back.
“It felt like they wanted to end music with that one—brass, choirs, the whole cathedral job. It kind of did.”
Deak laughed. “You take this so seriously, mate. It’s just music. It’s practically free. Hell, brother, the streaming services own music now.”
“Ach, that just shows you. It isn’t dead. If people want to sell it, it must be worth something.”
“It’s just nostalgia, mate.”
“Ah, mate, that’s an old trap. It’s the moment. It’s the here and now. Somewhere in this town, someone is sitting with a notebook and a guitar, and they’ve got to get something off their chest, something they can’t just say. They’re going to bleed it onto the page. They’re going to shout it into the darkness and, for a moment, even feel the pulse of the universe, feel alive.”
“Shit, brother, I think you just need to have some fucking sex. Go pick up a nice girl.”
“Ha, fuck off, pal. I had a hot time last night with your maw.”
“That’s interesting. She’s been dead for ten years, and we scattered her ashes on some thorn bushes.”
They both burst out laughing.
Even Bring Your Ghost to the Fire couldn’t keep it going, Frankie thought. First album was a classic, but I don’t like their recent stuff. But it sells.
When did Hubie stop giving a shit and write “Boogie Pants”?
There was a burst of static, and Lauren’s voice came over the speakers. “Here’s a song for first kisses.”
The unmistakable sound of Idlewild blasted out across the bar.
They both looked over to the bar, and Lauren gave them a thumbs-up and a smile.
They both grinned back.
“I like her, she’s got the passion, eh?” said Frankie.
“Ach she’s a bit much eh and she’ll not give up that punk band name though,” laughed Frankie.
Paul Andrew Sneddon 