Ludlow, Go, Go.

I'm here in Ludlow amongst English tourists, quiet retired people; the sandals and socks brigade. I’m out for Ricky’s 39th birthday. It’s 8.30 pm and I’ve known Ricky for nearly twenty minutes. I’m on holiday, visiting friends and relatives for the week, which roughly translates as hanging around other people’s lives for the week. Today I’m here with the proprietor of the Globe restaurant and bar, my friend Adam who’s out on a Monday night for Ricky’s birthday and so, by default, I am too.

Earlier, sitting in the beer garden at Adam’s bar on a sunny Monday afternoon, he asks when we first went to Glastonbury.
“Oh that was years ago, 2002."
"It was longer ago than that.”
It had a 2 at the end.
“1992.” Boy, that was a long time ago. So we’re not young anymore after all. We used to live in a squalid house in Toxteth, next to a burnt out petrol station left over by the riots. The early nineties were so long ago I’ve taken ten years off to make it more palatable.

The past, the present, the future. It was all making sense on the train here. The train rolls along in no hurry, but that’s ok, it’s great when all you have to do is look out at the pleasant valleys, the round bails of hay in the fields, the wild red heather. Everything makes sense on a train when you’re headed somewhere that’s away from your everyday reality.

Reality is only a phone call away though. The next morning my landlord calls to tell me he’s been getting irate calls from the council for non-payment of council tax. Funny thing is I’ve paid my council tax. The council had the flat as Flat 2, I’m living in Flat B and paying for that, so they’ve decided as no-one is paying for Flat 2, which isn’t real just a part of their wilful imagination, they have to send the baliffs round to demand the money they’re not owed. Which means at sometime on their records, it must have said there was one flat on my floor and then when another one magically appeared they didn’t bat an eyelid, they just charged for it. Bureaucracy fails us every time. Don’t get me started.

Later, I’m sitting in Adam’s pub garden again, which is pretty empty apart from a retired antiques dealer who apparently comes in every day and buys a pot of coffee which he makes last all afternoon. The council tax people ring to say they’ve sorted it and called off the Dogs, as if it wasn’t really their fault at all. There’s a pause to allow me to speak my gratitude but they’re not getting any from me. A quick visit to Ludlow castle, feeding the ducks at the river, a delicious Thai meal and then I have to get back on my train and head off to someone elses life.