THE STROPPIES

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE: THE STROPPIES AT OSLO, HACKNEY – 21/5/20 - CANCELLED

My bicycle is in a terrible state. But I imagine it not beyond repair, and so I decide to get it repaired. By the time I drag it to the Rockstone Workshop at the rec the tyre is falling off and the inner tube is hanging out like exposed guts. One of the guys there can’t quite believe the state it is in.
  “I haven’t seen one like that in years,” he says. 
  “It’s been neglected,” I say.
  “Oh right,” says the guy.
  “It’s been left at the bottom of the garden.”
  “For a long time.”
  “Yeah.”
  “For years and years.”
  “Yeah, well, at least a year or two.”
  “Right. Wow.”
  The guy assured me that the bike was entirely beyond the reach of repair. “I can recycle it for you,” he says, “unless it’s got some sentimental value.”
  “No,” I say. “It’s got no sentimental value.” 
  I just leave it there, the guy still gawping at it.

“It’s funny watching you interact with people,” says wife.
  “Why,” I say, “because I’m so bad at it?”
  “Yeah, well, it just seems like such an effort.”
  “It is. It doesn’t come naturally.”
  “See, I just can’t imagine that. I just can’t get my head round it. I mean, that’s how humanity has developed and evolved over the years, because of our ability to communicate and work with each other.”
  “Yeah, I know. I’m pretty unnatural. I guess I must have gone pretty badly wrong somewhere along the line.”
  “You’re definitely on the spectrum,” says wife.

“What are the numbers like today?” I say over dinner, which is a total disaster, by the way.
  “I don’t know,” says wife. “Let me have a look.” She picks up her phone. 
  “Three hundred and fifty-five,” she says, after a few seconds of looking.
  “Oh,” I say.
  “That’s good,” says wife. “Well, it’s not good, but.”
  “It’s a lot of people,” I say. Because it is. If you imagine three hundred and fifty-five people all looking at you, it’s a lot of people. And if you try to fit them all into your house it’s a lot of people, and if they are all dead you could stack them one on top of the other which would help.

Wife’s father is ringing. “He hasn’t called me for about six months,” says wife. “I wonder what he wants.”
  He wants the number for the care home where wife’s poor uncle lives. “They’ve had confirmed cases,” says wife. 
  “Oh dear,” I say. 
  Wife gives him the number.
  “How’s Adam?” says wife’s father. 
  “Yeah, he’s all right,” says wife. “Well, yeah, we're both going pretty mental to be honest.”
  “And Juno,” says wife’s father, “how’s she?”
  “Mental,” says wife. “Yeah, she’s going pretty mental too.”
  “And River?” says wife’s father.
  “He’s just always been mental,” says wife.
  “Right, OK, good,” says wife’s father. “We’ll speak soon then.”

It’s dark outside. Wife offers me a drink, meaning alcohol of some sort, but I don’t want one. It’s nothing personal, alcohol just doesn’t agree with me. 
  “I’ve lost track of where we are with this today?” says wife. We’ve been arguing all day, and it’s getting hard to keep track of who is upsetting whom.
  “Just drop it then,” I say.
  “That’s easy for you to say.”
  “Just be nice.”
  “I’ve tried, a couple of times.”
  “Have you?”
  “Yes. You’re the one that’s been in a fucking mood all day.”
  “I’m just tired. I’m absolutely exhausted. I’m shattered.”
  “We both are.”
  “OK, fine. Let’s just leave it at that then. We don’t need to talk about it.”
  “Look at the way you’re being. Can’t you just be nice?”
  “That’s what I said.”
  And on it goes. 
  But I’ve got cold toes.

That last sentence is a reference to a book called Fox’s Socks. It’s about a smartly dressed fox who can’t find his socks. Eventually he finds them. One is inside a grandfather clock. The other is in a box in the attic. It’s a classic. I’ve read it a thousand times. Maybe more. I recently emptied out my sock drawer and threw away all the odd socks. But almost immediately the odd socks came creeping back. Today there are no pairs in there at all. Only odds.