I've been thinking about my friend Annie recently. When I went to visit her in hospital a couple of years ago and I was unsuccessfully fighting back the tears, she said that she could smell the boat on me and that that reminded her of how peaceful this place is. That was good enough. Now I have no idea if there is a 'boat smell'. I tend to think that boats smell of their owners: beer, food, weed, strange incense burners, but mainly slightly musty and a little damp. Still, what was important at the time is that it was a comfort to Annie at a really tough time. That was comfort enough for me.
I'm reminded of this because as I walked along the pontoon the other evening I realise that there is at least a winter smell that hangs over the moorings. The smell of burning wood and coal. It's wonderful. Homely. If you wish. Warm. Welcoming. I guess it kind of sums up part of the appeal of this floating existence.
When I last caught up with Annie, a few days ago, by the end of the day her joints were seizing up badly. The only way she could get upstairs was to crawl. She must have noticed whatever horrified look I had on my face because she turned to me and said with a smile: "It was worse when it first kicked in. This used to take me fourty-five minutes..." And we're not exactly talking a hard core set of stairs here. Just imagine that one day you're in the peak of health and the next it takes you fourty-five minutes to climb no more than twenty stairs. And yet not once have I known this little blonde lady, all of five feet four and a fringe, to complain. In fact all I've ever known her to do is to take every curve-ball life has thrown at her, look them squarely in the eye and send them back with twice the force. If you were ever to pity Annie she'd BA Barracus you straight into next year.
I think of how insignificant our petty, pitiful mewlings are. Those little excuses we all make for not doing the things that better ourselves. The little internal stories we tell that to explain why we haven't stopped drinking, haven't stopped smoking, haven't started exercising, haven't pissed the boss off out of it, haven't made some money, haven't achieved all our dreams. God help us if we ever had some serious shit to deal with. I'm surprised so many folks manage to keep going for 70 years, the weight of the world that hangs on their shoulders.
It's not that fucking difficult to smile.
Tunes: Thrice: The Earth Will Shake
No comments:
Post a Comment