Thrilling

I am in the camper van with Lucy. 

It is very late.

There are just the two of us, because Mark has taken Oliver back into town. Oliver wanted to give his pocket money to a homeless man, so they have gone back to find him. We couldn’t give him any money at the time because we didn’t have any. Oliver was so moved by his plight that he came back to the camper van and hunted out his wallet. 

There are lots of homeless people, it is heartbreaking: but that one in particular upset Oliver, and so he was determined to help.

They came back whilst I was writing those words, having not found the first homeless man, but a second, who begged for £2.50 so that he could afford a hostel for the night. They gave him all the cash they had, which turned out to be £2.30, and then emptied their pockets of the chocolate left over from the theatre to give to somebody else.

The theatre was brilliant, in an awfully upsetting sort of way. Death of a Salesman is a gloomy American story about a dysfunctional family and an ageing, failing father. The father was played by a chap called Don Warrington, and he was ace, although wasted his beautiful voice by pretending to have a horrible gritty American accent. 

Oliver was the youngest person in the theatre, followed by Lucy, by about twenty years: but they were captivated anyway, and we all held our breath and hoped desperately for reconciliation and a happy ending. Indeed, at the point where the salesman turns down his wealthy friend’s offer of a job Oliver bounced about in his seat and squeaked with indignation. He was still horrified by this plot twist at the end, and went on about it, at some length, on the walk back, and had to have wounded masculine pride explained to him.

It was a thrilling end to a very busy day. 

We had greeted the morning with sausage sandwiches  for breakfast.

We are parked in the same place as last time, and the cranes are still busy at on the building site across the road. The first thing that they seem to have built is the stairwell and lift shaft, which is an awful lot bigger than it was the last time we were here. Mark explained carefully to the children what they were all doing, and although they were not very interested I expect they will remember if ever they are in a tall building in a fire. 

After that we went for a walk into the city.

We were supposed to be getting the things that I was going to need for work, but we were almost immediately distracted by the most thrilling stall which promised 3D adventures. It turned out to be every bit as good as its word. We spent a fiver each and went to fight exciting space battles from huge egg-shaped chairs on an hydraulic platform.

If anybody else wants to give it a go, it is in the Arndale  Centre opposite Ann Summers. It is well worth a fiver, especially if you have got a strong stomach. We wagged about and cannoned past asteroids and spun and twirled and finally skidded back into the mother ship with some relief.

We had all sorts of good intentions about the sensible shopping things that we would do.  I don’t know how we managed to finish up in Waterstones and not Marks and Spencer’s for the thermal underwear that I am going to need for patrolling perimeter fences in November, but we did. 

We were still in there when we realised that it was time to go and meet my parents for lunch. They had kindly offered to relieve our financial doldrums by taking us out for lunch, to our favourite Chinese buffet restaurant. We had lost track of the time, and had to go belting across town in a hurry.

This was lovely. It was splendid to see my parents, and we all hugged everybody, including one another and the restaurant owner, who considers himself an honorary part of the family.

It is an all you can eat buffet, and we can eat a lot. It was rather brilliant to be there not at Christmas. When we go at Christmas I am always so anxious for the success of the party that I can never manage to eat much at all, and inevitably just get accidentally drunk. I wasn’t hosting an enormous party today, and so didn’t feel in the least nervous, and as a result ate lots. The spiced spare ribs were among the best I have ever had.

In any case, we couldn’t get drunk, because the restaurant owner had forgotten to reapply for his alcohol licence, and was having a temporarily dry patch. He promised us that he would have restored it by Christmas.

He had jolly well better.

We had a cheery lunch, although without much conversation due to the excellence of the food. It is nice to be eating out with people who know us well enough not to expect scintillating conversation when there are noodles.

After lunch we visited the shop next door, which sold Chinese things of the gold-painted multi-coloured style that always appeals to me very much. I was tempted by everything, from some brilliant red and gold embroidered shirts, to some beautiful bamboo windchimes, which might have been my favourite thing to have in a garden, and which made a melodic hollow sound when they clunked together. The picture is Oliver in what used to be called a coolie hat, but which might now be called something else if it is racist to have coolies in this century.

When we had waved goodbye to my parents we finished up back at Waterstones. The children spent their pocket money and we spent our overdraft. I don’t care. I have long wanted the new George RR Martin book.

It will be perfectly useful. I am going to read it in the evenings when I am in prison.