At that time in my life when I cared little of the future because I had so much of it in my pockets, I would visit a small café near my home every morning for boiled egg on toast. I do not remember the name of the café. I do not know if the café had a name! I imagine it did, but at that time, I had a stoop, and one can only assume too that the café’s sign was high above the door, far from where my eyes could see.
The woman who ran the café was a woman, and I remember thinking the first time I entered the café that if she tried, she would scrub up quite well. Because I frequented the place I became quite pally with the woman, and we would talk and I eventually married her and now she is dead. That is pretty much the whole story.
Of course, I have missed out many things. I must confess to you all that those missing incidents were in fact happy incidents, but to recall them would only make me sad, and in turn, may mutate into what miserable folk call regret. And I must confess this too; a man can die if his head and heart swells with too many regrets. I know because my father died of a similar fate. I once asked my father of his regrets, and he said he had many, but the single most regret he had was he wished he had slept with more women before he met my mother. I left the room, shortly thereafter, with a red face and much confusion in my mind. Continue reading ‘Woolgathering by Craig Wallwork’
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