This is one of those situations where I really wish I’d had a good three hours to write a proper, long, well structured, comprehensive, erudite, soulstirring blog post, but as it is I haven’t even had five minutes spare to do crunches since we left Wales on Saturday and I feel weird, bubba, having not done any exercise for three days, after doing lots of exercise every single day since, what is, April?
It was a unnaturally long Summer in Wales, in which I walked up a mountain into the woods every morning, ran on the beach every night, and did pull ups and swung off bars like a monkeyboy. Hercules and I even spent some time doing interval training in the skate park, me launching him up and down the half pipes in his battered little buggy at savage speeds as he whooped and hollered with the joy of a boy who knows full well he could probably get severely injured any second.
I got in shape, and I spent precious, joyful time with my family during the finest british summer in living memory. Then Autumn went flump, and now my ride is here. At 3:30 I’ll board a plane bound for Los Angeles, my wordly goods whittled down to only those very very essentials that I can carry. Charlotte and Herc will remain here for a few months, while I mount the hill and fight the proverbial Indians, and I will miss them and they will miss me, and Herc will undergo great change that I shall not be present to witness, but through the ghostly digital curtains of Skype, and we will be reunited, and it will be glorious. Two months is a blink of an eye in a lifetime. Well, a gods’ lifetime maybe. But it will pass fast, and we will be stronger, and we will be living in Los Angeles, with the sun, and the Mickey Mouses.
The day I left Wales was, by force of glorious serendipity, the day me and Herc’s new pal Ryan – an aspirant MMA fighter and former Young Sausagemaker Of The year who works in the butchers – had the fight he’d been working up to the whole time I’d been working up to this move. After months of pushing tractor tires up hills, getting buried up to his tits in sand whist doing twisty crunches and getting his nose broken, he spent his last week trying to lose half a stone by drinking 7 litres of water a day and having salt baths, while I carted boxes into storage, sold all my stuff on Ebay and whittled my possessions down to a small pile I could fit on a plane. It seemed our destinies were somehow linked, and the direction of my life would be confirmed by the outcome of his fight.
I was sad I was going to miss Ryan’s fight, but it was my Nan’s 90th birthday party in the midlands. How fortunate that mere days before I emigrate my Nan has a surprise 90th birthday party, attended by all my family on my Mamma’s side? Amazing. So on Saturday morning, as the sun rose over the cliff tops, I took one last run along my beach, packed our SAAB, and drove to Redditch.
It was a very joyous occasional. What a privilege, to see my Nan, the eldest of thirteen, surrounded by three generations of humans that would not existed were it not for her. To see my Mum, surrounded by a similarly indebted two. I had worried my presence might sour the occasion, but I needn’t have ’t drank and were merry. Charlotte and me and Uncle Maurice were last to go to bed. I woke next morning to a decimated bottle of Raspberry Absolut, and a Facebook message from Ryan:
Knocked the guy out in under 10 secs, paramedics had to bring him round, ko’d in the cage for 6 mins, he said he cant remember being in the cage. Check the vid on my wall, hope your adventure is going well and all the family is safe. Farewell brother.
Everything, in the words of Tiny G, is gonna be OK.