tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-125811042011-12-31T15:02:50.680ZTHE LIFE AND TIMES OF A TYPICAL SOMEBODYMarkus Lloydhttps://profiles.google.com/113716897467403546415noreply@blogger.comBlogger581100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12581104.post-16677256141975005632011-12-31T15:02:00.000Z2011-12-31T15:02:50.685Z

Sometime after migrating the blog back to Blogger, all the images hosted on Flickr dropped out - though the pictures are still on Flickr, it would take to long to reattach them manually. So, apologies, the images were a bonus, but not necessary. I'll keep trying to re-embed them, until then fill the blanks with your imagination.

Markus Lloydhttps://profiles.google.com/113716897467403546415noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12581104.post-1121899447520717352005-07-20T22:40:00.000Z2005-07-21T14:18:53.726Z

Mrs A's FuneralWhy the fuck should Amy Acton have to say goodbye to a casket, a plush wooden box containing the emptiness of her mother's body? I told Ted Acton there was no way I'd let Amy go to her mum's funeral. He wanted her there he said. 'For something you can hold to, to comfort you' I told him, 'and what of Amy, you really thing she ought to say bye, mum to polished brass and walnut?'

Markus Lloydnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12581104.post-1121601910552217422005-07-17T12:01:00.000Z2005-07-19T08:48:16.080Z

(the last of that) THURSDAYWhen I'd done reading those letters to Mrs A, I sat for a long while, letting time run away, I'd no desire to halt it's escape. At a certain point - can't say why it was certain, but it was definite - I walked over to the drinks cabinet. I was unscrewing the lid on a vodka bottle when I came-to, realising I needed to go fetch Rio, my son, and Amy, Mrs A's daughter, from

Markus Lloydnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12581104.post-1120933714977121612005-07-09T18:21:00.000Z2005-07-09T18:28:34.983Z

(forever) THURSDAYWhen someone drinks, a heavy boozer, they leave a slug trail, an acknowledgement of glass, a trace of their route to oblivion or wherever they intended tripping out to. At the end of an average week, I'll have about five or six wine bottles to dispose of: now that we've a blue-lid wheelie bin for recycling my habit's less exposed (than carrying bags or a box of clattering,

Markus Lloydnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12581104.post-1120772908600918622005-07-07T21:32:00.000Z2005-07-08T00:04:18.886Z

THURSAY (still)Man's Voice:        Who's speaking? Me:                        Oh! I thought I was calling Isabell's number, I must've misdialled?Man's Voice:        This might be Isabell's phone, it was left here, The Ferryman &                                Firkin on High Street in Southampton? Me:                        Look, if I ring back on Isabell's number, we'll know if it's her

Markus Lloydnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12581104.post-1120692868063828222005-07-06T22:17:00.000Z2005-07-07T19:42:35.973Z

THURSDAYThe key was in the concrete planter, in the pea gravel under a potted shrub, where Amy said I'd find it. I let myself into Mrs A's home. Every house has its distinctive smell: sometimes it's the sweetness of boiled potatoes, the tangy musk of a cat, the sourness of settled dust, but always it's a cocktail of tincture whiffs: a peculiar odour that rolls out of an opened door, to greet, to

Markus Lloydnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12581104.post-1120088142437130502005-06-29T23:25:00.000Z2005-06-29T23:35:42.443Z

I recall my toes dipped over the diving board's edge. I perched up there, the highest you could climb, like our budgie atop of his cage when out for a flap. Level with slate roofs and chimney pots, the choppy waters of town, the pool fathoms below, I hesitated, only because it was a spectacle, the view of the houses and distant countryside, what the onlookers saw of me, chafe awaiting a sharp

Markus Lloydnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12581104.post-1119999817943005422005-06-28T23:00:00.000Z2005-06-29T19:40:01.316Z

Verity's leaving work, she's quit, she's doing her notice, she's going to be an estate agent (so she thinks, but she'll be a receptionist, the sex upfront), and she hasn't said a word, not to me. We've not really spoken, not the way we did. She's happy enough, dizzy with her new life, with the landmark of pregnancy, with her Meena, with the flat; so, I'm happy too. I'm pissed off she's as-well-as

Markus Lloydnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12581104.post-1119829625865992902005-06-26T23:44:00.000Z2005-06-26T23:47:05.873Z

Last Wednesday'Thar's you getting you tits sucked on moy blokes mobile, what you s'pect me t'say?' voiced one candy-coloured grrrl to another, 'I don't want t'see it, do I? Not awn yaw boyfriend's phone, d'ya? I mean, what the fuck, like!' The other grrrl, who wearing a visor, see-through, kind a croupier in Westerns has on, but magenta, doesn't say anything. It's impossible to say if she was the

Markus Lloydnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12581104.post-1119309240479061982005-06-20T23:11:00.000Z2005-06-20T23:21:16.473Z

Sights seenElderly fellow, wearing flasher mac and flat-cap, bending to pick dog treats off the pavement: they'd spilt from the bag of dog treats he was carrying: he hadn't a dog with him: he seemed to be wearing plastic ears, some kind of novelty ears.A cowboy: he had on the full regalia, except he was wearing shorts, short shorts: yes, he wore cowboy boots, elaborately stitched: he was carrying

Markus Lloydnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12581104.post-1119226902534748462005-06-20T00:15:00.000Z2005-06-20T00:21:42.543Z

I showered three times today, under cold water, it was too hot for me. The shade I contrived outside with a white sheet (I surrender!) was no escape, the heat got itself out of the sun by joining us, me & Rio, beneath the gerry-rigged canopy. Indoors with the blinds tweaked was no use. Hosed Rio down a few times on the lawn, it was no fun when he'd not the will to run, moaning when I turned the

Markus Lloydnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12581104.post-1119138436135282912005-06-18T23:38:00.000Z2005-06-20T23:22:39.333Z

The heavens pull one out of the hat. Phew, what a scorcher! Every subtle movement a bead of sweat. The greatest shade is always indoors, so that's where we retreated, it was all in and out today. I even tried wearing my bikini, to water and dead head, like that'd make it cooler. I just got singed. What's the point of days too summery to celebrate, just makes them summary days. Rio spent the

Markus Lloydnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12581104.post-1119051438084665452005-06-17T23:34:00.000Z2005-06-17T23:37:18.090Z

After my shift, I decided to pop downtown. I got the bus, and rode it to the train station, I was going to Brantano for shoes for Rio, it's a quick walk over the footbridge and across Toys-R-Us'es car-park. Warm day, overcast. Anyway, I'd stepped off the bus, crossed the road: it was unusually quiet, no crocodile of rail passengers headed into the city: a mother and daughter were strolling

Markus Lloydnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12581104.post-1118963343357615152005-06-16T23:05:00.000Z2005-06-16T23:14:04.430Z

Who's more miserable, all those people surrounding me that are heartbroken, hurt and buried alive, or, me, wanting to carouse, to have it large now the summer's here, with no one up for it, to share myself with? I'm fed up with tissues and tears. Hasn't my life been tough, cruel even? I coped. I had help, yes, but I didn't burden those kindnesses with impossible questions. 'What can I do?' 'Tell

Markus Lloydnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12581104.post-1118870913207863792005-06-15T21:26:00.000Z2005-06-15T21:30:50.513Z

It excites me when it rains, especially during the summer, 'cause it's warm enough to sit out, undercover, and close to the element. I can recall as a nipper being pushed in a pram with a see-through plastic roof to it, and can remember the noise of rain falling, spitter, spatter. Later, I'd sit in the porch, or in the door of an outhouse, a shed, anywhere I could be alone with the rain. Now, I

Markus Lloydnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12581104.post-1118747363151675272005-06-14T11:02:00.000Z2005-06-15T15:14:42.816Z

Sunday Last in One Fell SwoopHaving seen Mrs Jacobs down the road, the two of us dodgy on our pegs with drink, I decide to shower, to preempt that greasy, dehydrated me who'd wake crushed like a beetle for cochineal in the proper morning. The bathroom was a sauna, I thought 'let's sweat out as much alcohol as possible'. The water was too hot. Stepping out onto a towel, one foot still in the

Markus Lloydnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12581104.post-1118662207780807242005-06-13T11:22:00.000Z2005-06-13T12:22:58.486Z

   10.05 SaturdayKids, dense, dense as wasps swarming, about a car parked outside our house, a definite buzz, four letter drone, like the vehicle's made of raw molasses. It's taken the little, not so little, fuckers ages to latch-on to this motor. I know what they've spotted, what they've come to ogle and speculate on. It's a Citeron, one of those long door-wedge sort of ones that lift on

Markus Lloydnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12581104.post-1118426886778957142005-06-10T17:59:00.000Z2005-06-10T18:11:23.130Z

If I was a loaf of sliced bread, today, I'd have sweated, condensing dew against the polythene wrapper, and quickly bloomed furry warts of mould: it was that kind of heat the sun radiated. I spent the afternoon in the back garden, lounging, a still distilling. Rio had a half-day, so he was crashed out on a rug on the grass reading, burning bugs with his magnifying glass and catching a few zeds.

Markus Lloydnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12581104.post-1118321745381080752005-06-09T12:41:00.000Z2005-06-09T12:57:44.186Z

The Inverse Night SkyToast crumbs left embedded in the margarine, the starry starry night turned inside out. It makes sense, at breakfast, doesn't it, those pinheads of charcoal pimpling the streetlight yellow spread, the exact opposite of night, not just an alternative like the day. You furl the day on a swiping blade of butterknife, and spread it, fat as possible, to make the overdone toast of

Markus Lloydnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12581104.post-1118105375244362732005-06-07T00:39:00.000Z2005-06-07T00:53:54.636Z

My mind hung a hammock between my ears and spent the day loll, a pea in a pod. 'A puh-odd, Stanley!' (I was watching Laurel & Hardy a few weeks back). Kid's back at school. I played the automaton at work, a curvaceous vending machine. I was simply liquor poured into the shot-glass of the day, not a drop spilt, even when it was drunk, down in one. Only, there's really nothing to recount, account

Markus Lloydnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12581104.post-1118012991685521762005-06-05T23:03:00.000Z2005-06-05T23:09:51.690Z

Clouds like battleships, like aircraft carriers, squadrons of raindrops in readiness. Launch, launch, launch. Southampton huddles in this kind of weather, a bus queue crowded under a scant shelter, out of the monsoon, musty with humid cloth and sniffling. Indoors, bedside lamps are switched on, to light the papers, to illuminate the ins and outs of sex, to demonstrate some commitment to the

Markus Lloydnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12581104.post-1117976444156445992005-06-05T12:51:00.000Z2005-06-05T13:10:42.490Z

The Rest of the Night, Done InIt's far too early, not in the morning, but the night. Geri dropped us back here 'bout 12.20pm. She didn't come in for a glass of wine because it's an another ten minutes to her mam's. How'll I negotiate the telling of this evening? The orthodox way, I suppose: I'll begin the beguine...Okay, here's me tarted to sainthood, listening out for Geri's horn, her Ka's

Markus Lloydnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12581104.post-1117902905545895152005-06-04T16:31:00.000Z2005-06-04T16:35:05.550Z

More of Today, Up to NowI'm invited out tonight, to a party in the Forest (New Forest, that is). My pal Geri's going to pick us up, it's her cousin's fortieth, Ant (husband) can't make it, so I'm riding shotgun. She rang before I 'ran rabbit ran' into town, so had an excuse to buy myself a new outfit. I won't bore you, but the looks pure Viagra, I'm expecting 12 inch salutes wherever I go. I'm

Markus Lloydnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12581104.post-1117883417764841012005-06-04T11:04:00.000Z2005-06-04T11:14:39.853Z

Yesterday RecountedIt rained. Each raindrop, a water-bomb, a condom filled to bursting. The sky scowled, not wanting to participate: the sky was in need of a day-off, some r'n'r. The weather played at the windows like the hula-hula of a grass skirt. After work, after saying goodbye to Verity, I stayed indoors, Rio and me sheltering. Watching Shane and The Amazing Mr Blunden and Countdown, having

Markus Lloydnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12581104.post-1117815565682594492005-06-03T16:13:00.000Z2005-06-03T16:22:51.956Z

Last NightI wrote this at one in the morning, I was drunk and shag-tired. I passed out at the keyboard, well, nodded off, violently, suddenly. I've edited so it makes a little sense, but not so much that I'm rewriting history, there's no hindsight.2 and 2 (eventually) makes 4, and about eight, Verity's on the blower, 'Shir, I think I'm pregnant'. Well, what do I say, 'bonus points awarded to me',

Markus Lloydnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12581104.post-1117715738154857612005-06-02T12:29:00.000Z2005-06-02T14:28:34.983Z

I suspect Verity's pregnant. She was bilious again this morning, gas hicked at the back of her throat as we addressed the papers. The wet white soap of her complexion yesterday's more slimey off-white public lavvy sliver of a bar today. It's approximately three or four weeks since she went with a bloke. Major irony alert! I'm keeping my suspicions to myself, it'll dawn on her soon enough. Got to

Markus Lloydnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12581104.post-1117664227118157492005-06-01T22:08:00.000Z2005-06-02T09:51:56.066Z

The clouds've comedown, touching the rooftops, which're Heathcliff-moorland wet (I'm thinking of Alan Bates' eyes, Oliver Reed's too), the street's smokey with light rain, and a single bird's pouring out its tiny heart. Rio's over Amy's. I've brought the computer downstairs into the living room, I've been having a change-about. Strange thing to notice, but all the upstairs windows I can spy

Markus Lloydnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12581104.post-1117583773420875802005-05-31T23:40:00.000Z2005-06-01T08:19:18.046Z

That's another May all but done with, the tube rolled tight and just a bubble burst of the day left to use (toothpaste analogy, you got it, right?). Kid's been over his mate Dickie's most of the day, under orders not to take his t shirt off. I'm going to let him watch the England game tonight, seeing as it's half-term. He wants to see Crouch debut (plays for Saints). I've ordered a pizza, he'll

Markus Lloydnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12581104.post-1117496356831385162005-05-30T23:29:00.000Z2005-05-30T23:44:36.950Z

The West Quay was bristling like a jam jar full of wasps. West Quay's a monster indoor shopping complex. You navigate the place like the Seven Circles of Hell, those going up traveling counter-clockwise, those headed downwards corkscrewing deeper and deeper underground. Everyone's an ant carrying an impressive load, purchases that far out-size their income. Took Rio for a burger in the rafters,

Markus Lloydnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12581104.post-1117418422437372522005-05-30T01:57:00.000Z2005-05-30T02:27:38.976Z

Okey dokey, pig in a pokey. 13:00 Cut the grass out back. Cloths-pegs like fallen soldiers shattered on the ground under the mower. What needed strimming strum. Made a tent for Rio over one of the deckchairs, where he slouched most of the afternoon, reading a bootleg Harry Potter, quite native American shawled in a travel blanket. He adores the cud potency of the air after mowing. 13:55 Indoors

Markus Lloydnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12581104.post-1117371647008692052005-05-29T12:59:00.000Z2005-05-29T13:00:47.013Z

'Everyday' - you have to make it up, conjure it into being something worth living: you wake, if you're lucky yesterdays spill over and plant flags on the otherwise blank lunar surface of today: you have breakfast, things implant themselves, cress seeds, and 'we could do's' unfurl tender stems, and you wash your dishes because that's one tiny leaf already, thankful for daylight: you dress, though

Markus Lloydnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12581104.post-1117291491524241042005-05-28T14:40:00.000Z2005-05-29T13:01:29.126Z

Yesterday was the hottest this year. Rio spent the late afternoon with his pal Dickie (if only he'd a sister called Fanny). Dickie's mom, Joanna-May (named in the age of Smokey and the Bandit) let the tykes runabout the garden topless. Rio came home beetroot, and his blond going white. I buttered him with aftersun. His ears already shedding their skins. He didn't sleep well, couldn't get himself

Markus Lloydnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12581104.post-1117185390175145142005-05-27T09:12:00.000Z2005-05-27T09:17:45.186Z

When the cruise liners depart Southampton, there're fireworks, a big send-off. Living so close, close enough, you grow used to the sudden rifling of the night air. You like it, even; because where else. It reminds you, this is the port the Titanic left behind, filled with promise, gaiety and belief, before it was sunk by hope, foundered on the iceberg of the Modern Age. Rio and I sit on my bed,

Markus Lloydnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12581104.post-1117131585228025152005-05-26T18:18:00.000Z2005-05-26T22:09:33.523Z

You know, I wish I could think of my flesh as putty, something meant to be kneaded warm, pliable, to be shaped, used to cement, that solidifies after use, hard skinned, awaiting wrestling. But I'm not Lizzie Henry, I don't put it about, I'm far from up for grabs. You should've seen her today, strutting down past Woolies, bikini top and micro-skirt, arse cheeks overladen hammocks peekabooing

Markus Lloydnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12581104.post-1117061798419506132005-05-24T21:26:00.000Z2005-05-25T23:14:27.076Z

PrologueBack in the Eighties, I worked, for a while, in the laundry of a Mental Hospital. It was one of those Victorian asylums, as much a prison as anything. Some of the inmates worked with us: they were paid in cigarettes and Mars Bars. When the summer came, it was the fiercest of summers. If the temperature in the laundry, with the machines going, washing, steaming, pressing, and its glass

Markus Lloydnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12581104.post-1116548572844319032005-05-20T00:20:00.000Z2005-05-20T00:22:52.850Z

There's always that other thing, opposed to the thing you have. It's something you can't have, until you've got it: then there's ever another thing to want. I yearn, don't you, after something, making do with what I've got. When I've been 'with' somebody, there was always someone else I couldn't get. It feels the greater love, the star uncross'd one. Imagined kisses, touches, fucks are

Markus Lloydnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12581104.post-1116460149412795662005-05-18T23:40:00.000Z2005-05-18T23:49:09.416Z

There's a pudgy boy I see walking by the house, he's always wearing a baseball cap, he must live close to, I guess, and he is in the habit of shouting down the street to his mates, or enemies, who can tell, the language he uses, 'Tommo, ya cunt! Wot's up, anus? That spunk guzzler with ya? Where the fuck's she at, muppet? Go spin, shit fer brains! Tosser! See ya later, muvverfucker!'. I know, it's

Markus Lloydnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12581104.post-1116372321109970652005-05-17T23:18:00.000Z2005-05-17T23:33:45.016Z

I went to boil the kettle, it was ten thirty, I'd no idea. It's like I've only just woken. The day's a blank. Who shook my Etch A Sketch? I looked in Rio's room, in case I'd left him somewhere. Nope, there he was, hanging off the edge of his bed: he likes to sleep in this precarious position. If I worked today, good: I never noticed. Can't account for my whereabouts, or those of my thoughts. '

Markus Lloydnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12581104.post-1116288775277775592005-05-17T00:03:00.000Z2005-05-17T00:15:26.300Z

I wet myself. I pissed my pants. I was stuck in traffic on Burgess Road, and I couldn't hang on. I'd been dying to go before leaving the shop, but Derek (the owner) was in the loo (Irritable Bowel Syndrome, poo-ey!). I had to cross town to West End, to watch Rio play football for his school. I thought about getting out and squatting in the gutter. No, there's a pub a little way up the road, I'll

Markus Lloydnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12581104.post-1116193108862807852005-05-15T21:27:00.000Z2005-05-15T21:41:10.793Z

Sunday's not quite a day of rest. Sunday's a day for ignoring things, a close second. I ignored the lawn, which needs cutting already. The loose towel rail in the bathroom, the scratch on the wall up the staircase, the spaghetti of cables behind the tv, all disappeared to some nth dimension. Rio's been round Amy's most of the day, playing Dr Who and assistant. Mrs Acton sends him back with his

Markus Lloydnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12581104.post-1116103800769772072005-05-14T20:42:00.001Z2005-05-14T21:09:27.533Z

I've been crying. It was Dr Who, and Rose's dad (if you don't know, I can't explain). Rio got up on the settee and gave us a hug. 'Don't cry, mum, the monsters ain't real' he says. Gawd, I'm so sad. I don't cry often, and never at stuff that actually effects/affects me for proper. The saddest thing I can think of, the sliced onion that'll start me off blubbing, is a story I read in a paper years

Markus Lloydnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12581104.post-1116033775785387192005-05-13T23:42:00.000Z2005-05-14T01:23:33.136Z

I'll call in sick early tomorrow. I've got myself right pissed tonight. I didn't mean to. There's an offer up Threshers, buy two bottles of wine get one free. I thought, hey I'll splash out on the better stuff, as it'll even out as per normal. I got myself three Viognier, gorgeous stuff. After one, I wanted another: I'm not talking glasses. You don't get as pissed at home. Instead you eat more:

Markus Lloydnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12581104.post-1116031907655198372005-05-13T17:38:00.000Z2005-05-14T01:23:54.540Z

The nearest I feel I get to the future the late Seventies and early Eighties promised, the architecture of, the otherworldliness, is the car-park for West Quay called the Podium. It's Logan's Run, it's Mad Max, it's Japanese. Low level, like the widest wide screen, there's nothing that's real as cinematic, Habitat lit, yes, low level, swimming pools of orange fluorescence, stark, seductive,

Markus Lloydnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12581104.post-1115981995330021252005-05-13T10:53:00.000Z2005-05-13T11:05:11.123Z

Today, the dock cranes are friendly, waving hello, a jovial salute. The skies are clouded, the summery white of ocean liners, of cotton sheets on a line. There's a stiff breeze, the laundry drying on the rotary in the garden's taking a roundabout ride. It's a festival day: that's how it seems to me. I'm not working today. I've got the place ship-shape, meaning I'm free, an afternoon's vagrancy

Markus Lloydnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12581104.post-1115917521976696012005-05-12T16:59:00.000Z2005-05-12T17:18:02.426Z

Everyone's at it. My body salivates plenty, why doesn't its hunger drive me? I've learnt my lessons, perhaps, too well. 'You want to get some, Shirl. Put's a spring in your heels' Lorna tells me. She's got herself a fancy man. It's supposed to be a secret, great juicy steak of a secret she can savour, who the bloke is: it's clearly Eric, he's in all the time, for ciggies, chewy, throat pastels,

Markus Lloydnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12581104.post-1115816746303682232005-05-11T13:02:00.000Z2005-05-11T13:05:46.310Z

One twenty! One fucking twenty a.m.! Luckily Rio's well-deep into his sweaty-sweet dreams. Me, I was nicely cocoon'd under the duvet, squiffy with near-sleep, when... the phone. Now, it's pretty rare I get a call as it is. Work phones to get me to cover a shift sometimes. Rio's school rings, very occasionally. Verity calls to be asked round, to cry on my shoulder. Cold calls. I phone out mostly,

Markus Lloydnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12581104.post-1115748647062657602005-05-10T17:53:00.000Z2005-05-10T18:10:47.086Z

I'm not a cat-lover. I'm good friends with our Randy, who we inherited off the previous house-owners. He looks just like Sylvester: and, seeing as how Rio looks something like an anaemic, blond Tweety Pie, it seemed right to keep the old ligger. He spends the night on Rio's bed, only, he's got fleas right now. Of course I mean Randy, but, yeah, Rio's got them too. I've gone and got some powerful

Markus Lloydnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12581104.post-1115659172620031952005-05-09T17:11:00.000Z2005-05-09T17:26:08.520Z

Everything sounds the horn around here: the cruise liners, cargo ships, the ferry, the tobacco factory at knocking on and knocking off, the traffic on Millbrook, ambulances, coppers and fire brigade (fretting to and fro constantly), and, yes, all the people, and me. It's one big whoop, whoop, whoop. I got honked at. I was walking home after my shift, and crossing the high street, I was honked -

Markus Lloydnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12581104.post-1115560247187603352005-05-08T13:27:00.000Z2005-05-08T22:10:14.916Z

My Rio's best friend is a pudgy girl named Amelia, and you on no account can call her Amy. 'If we'd wanted her to be an Amy, we'd have christened her Amy' says her mum, Mrs Acton (I don't want to be on first name terms with her, she wears a string of pearls). Amelia's a cocky thing, but as likable as her mom's not. She'll come and sit beside me, when she's visiting us, and talk to me, questioning

Markus Lloydnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12581104.post-1115470779751350182005-05-07T12:45:00.000Z2005-05-17T22:50:12.613Z

Rio's outside managing a zoo of insects he's captured. He's got them caged in jars, in the enclosure of an old bowl, with leaves, twigs and earth. He's chasing a moth about the lawn with cupped hands. He's absorbed. Great. His mucky hands and face are a joy to behold. A proper boy. His favourite creatures are woodlice. He always has some with him, in his pocket inside a matchbox. He doesn't give

Markus Lloydnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12581104.post-1115399943301857522005-05-06T17:07:00.000Z2005-05-06T17:51:33.646Z

Rio's going to a birthday party, straight from school, and being brought home at 7-7.30. I've been lounging out in the garden. Wasn't long before I drifted off. I love the sensation of the sun drawing sweat up onto me face, the chill trickles that sop into tee shirt collars or toboggan down in between your boobs. I love the cocktail of car fumes, magnolia flowers, of toasting tobacco (from the

Markus Lloydnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12581104.post-1115303323433742582005-05-05T14:17:00.000Z2005-05-05T14:34:24.160Z

I'm smiling, have been all day, so far, and I can't think why. Can't seem to help it. It's not that I'm happy, I don't believe in happiness. I might be I'm content, but is anyone really? It's love, a kind of love, I'm guessing. It pleases me to be alive, so I'm smiling. Smiles like kisses. I'll pick Rio up in my arms and plant a wet one on him when he trundles in. It's not even sunny, though the

Markus Lloydnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12581104.post-1115229168800106642005-05-04T17:38:00.000Z2005-05-04T17:52:48.820Z

Little one's asleep on the sofa, under a blanket, a shelled prawn covered in Thousand Island. The radio's on to keep him safe, he likes the reassurance of Radio 4, of talk. I'll hear if he wakes too fully, the computer room's at the head of the stairs. I'm kind-of addicted to this blogging; probably as you become a fervent diarist for one or two weeks every New Year. It's not like I've anything

Markus Lloydnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12581104.post-1115208230142390552005-05-04T12:01:00.000Z2005-05-04T16:14:14.986Z

So, it's barely midday, and I am knackered. Rio was mithering last night. I don't let him sleep in my bed, why should I, he's got his own. He has to learn his own bed's as safe as it gets. Anyway, I've dream-walked my way through the morning shift. Lorna was on, and she's a small army in herself. Everyone's Lorna's prisoner or victim. She has attitude in abundance. It's because she's Glaswegian,

Markus Lloydnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12581104.post-1115162010502117782005-05-03T23:08:00.000Z2005-05-03T23:24:32.653Z

Rio's having nightmares, so I'm staying upstairs across the landing where he can see me, I've wedged his bedroom door open. He has terrible nights once in a while. He says it's the same dream mostly. A desert of sand in still waves, and he's lying behind the crest of one, he's not alone, he's allies, and their watching a dark caravan pass along the next ridge. Why's that so scary? Who knows. Rio

Markus Lloydnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12581104.post-1115148982685283402005-05-03T19:35:00.000Z2005-05-03T21:18:23.780Z

Gawd, I want to smoke again. I can't afford it, though I could easily rob twenty off the shelves at work. Verity does, sometimes, when she's brassic and gasping. She'll lift a bottle of red for a party, or to cosset an evening. She's, what, twenty-seven, and what should she care for right and wrong. Gawd, I want a smoke and I'm moralizing: it's 'cause of my Rio, the soft get, that I can't, won't

Markus Lloydnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12581104.post-1115073440959548252005-05-02T22:42:00.000Z2005-05-02T22:37:20.963Z

You grow used to fallen bodies on the pavement. There're so many drunks about, and students, and just a few homeless. Mostly, fallen asleep, passed out bodies, who couldn't make it home, or made a home in some crib of concrete or shrubbery. I see these bodies early, about five thirty in the morning, when I walk to work (to sort the papers for the paperboys). The pro's, the so-called street people

Markus Lloydnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12581104.post-1115073325738337432005-05-01T22:34:00.000Z2005-05-02T22:35:25.740Z

Of those two sparrows, I can but wonder which dared the other to dart beneath my car. Had to be the one surviving. Sparrows are small birds, and they aren't irksome to a car's suspension, they're nothing like 'sleeping policemen'. What I spied in the rearview mirror was something in the road, something discarded, like a pair of underpants or a sock, or something: what I saw wasn't worth braking

Markus Lloydnoreply@blogger.com1