Status: Finished, but never forgotten.
Live Forever
Hand in hand through their parklife.
He knows this side of town much better than I, and he knows his Star Wars quotes better too. Doesn’t stop me from doing my Darth Vader impression.
“I AM YOUR FATHER, LUKE… Join me and together we will rule the universe as FATHER AND SON!” I announce, with flamboyant gusto. Several pensioners and an acersecomic hippy seem to be distressed by this, judging by the increased speed with which they consequently hobble. He grins.
“I take orders from one person, ME!” he retorts, and suddenly I find myself being given a piggyback through Manchester. “Take a ride on the Millennium Falcon!”
It’s ridiculous, it’s odd considering we’ve known each other a total of two hours, it’s sappy and it’s awesome fun. After a shriek of protest, mingled with breathy giggles, he lets me down.
“I like nice boys,” I whine.
“I’m nice.”
There’s an awkward peace as we realise that this is the part in The Empire Strikes Back where Han and Leia cop off. But it doesn’t matter, because we’ve crash-landed in some Kentish heaven that should be on a nature show, not secluded in an unpleasant corner of Manchester. I could write sonnets about the bed of soft, vivid emerald needles and its border of plum-painted pansies. Lush, rich maples are dotted about, intricately random in their positioning, and in the words of Horace are providing “lovable coolness for the bull tired by the plough/and the wandering herd” (we do Latin at school). Picnicking couples, unreasonably photogenic, turn this into a scene from a holiday brochure.
It’s at times like this that I wonder why I can’t film my life. There would be various horrible things, but it would be worth putting up with them so that I could get to here. A picturesque park with photogenic people, if you want to get alliterative. My mind IS thinking in sonnets. It’s disrupted.
“Errrr...” Oh, I see. I’ve blocked out my senses for hearing so that my eyes could take the full brunt of the vision of perfection in front of me.
“Sorry, got distracted. What did you say?”
“I said, this is a nice place.” I’m about to query that statement – nice? Has he seen where I live? This is heaven – except that I notice something glaringly obvious which I’ve somehow managed to ignore all afternoon.
“Your accent isn’t Manc!”
“No, it’s not. I lived in London for fifteen years, moved up here last winter. Bother you?”
London. If this park is heaven, then London is the paragon of the furthest boundaries of perfection. It’s a dream that my family have refused to let me speak of; a dream which I can only begin to hope for when I’m hidden beneath bedsheets and under my pillow; a dream which sees me fleeing the North for good aged eighteen and taking all my worldly possessions to St Pancras Station before doing something, anything, just to stop me from ending up back in the shadow of Old Trafford and my father. Yes, it does bother me. I want to see everything; Big Ben, Tower Bridge, Buckingham Palace, the lights of the West End.
“I WANT TO GO TO LONDON!!” I shriek, and ramble on about how it’s my life’s aim to end up there. He looks slightly startled.
“It’s not that great...” Because he’s somewhat trampling on my dreams and doesn’t realise how important this is to me, I decide to annoy him the only way I can.
“Aaaaaaaaaaaall the people, SO MANY PEOPLE! And they aaaaaaaaaaaaaaall go hand in hand, HAND IN HAND THROUGH THEIIIIIIIIIIIIR, PARKLIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIFE...” I shout, completely tunelessly. Everyone stares at me. I’m nearly sorry for ruining their aestival idyll. He looks annoyed, and his eyes look even more beguiling.
“Shut up...” he mutters in that pleasantly soporific London accent. When I start up again, he grabs my poor, defenceless hand and hauls me off to a corner of the park that hasn’t been frequented by anyone. We crumple beside a resplendent birch in silence.
I’m not really sure how it happens, but tired from all the walking, we look at each other. Really look at each other. His wavy mahogany hair is glinting and his eyes are even more alluring than usual. He’s fairly skinny, but not the usual skeletons that I like. And I suppose that both of us are fairly bored as the summer reaches its encore, which is why five minutes later we’re not talking or looking at each other anymore.
“I AM YOUR FATHER, LUKE… Join me and together we will rule the universe as FATHER AND SON!” I announce, with flamboyant gusto. Several pensioners and an acersecomic hippy seem to be distressed by this, judging by the increased speed with which they consequently hobble. He grins.
“I take orders from one person, ME!” he retorts, and suddenly I find myself being given a piggyback through Manchester. “Take a ride on the Millennium Falcon!”
It’s ridiculous, it’s odd considering we’ve known each other a total of two hours, it’s sappy and it’s awesome fun. After a shriek of protest, mingled with breathy giggles, he lets me down.
“I like nice boys,” I whine.
“I’m nice.”
There’s an awkward peace as we realise that this is the part in The Empire Strikes Back where Han and Leia cop off. But it doesn’t matter, because we’ve crash-landed in some Kentish heaven that should be on a nature show, not secluded in an unpleasant corner of Manchester. I could write sonnets about the bed of soft, vivid emerald needles and its border of plum-painted pansies. Lush, rich maples are dotted about, intricately random in their positioning, and in the words of Horace are providing “lovable coolness for the bull tired by the plough/and the wandering herd” (we do Latin at school). Picnicking couples, unreasonably photogenic, turn this into a scene from a holiday brochure.
It’s at times like this that I wonder why I can’t film my life. There would be various horrible things, but it would be worth putting up with them so that I could get to here. A picturesque park with photogenic people, if you want to get alliterative. My mind IS thinking in sonnets. It’s disrupted.
“Errrr...” Oh, I see. I’ve blocked out my senses for hearing so that my eyes could take the full brunt of the vision of perfection in front of me.
“Sorry, got distracted. What did you say?”
“I said, this is a nice place.” I’m about to query that statement – nice? Has he seen where I live? This is heaven – except that I notice something glaringly obvious which I’ve somehow managed to ignore all afternoon.
“Your accent isn’t Manc!”
“No, it’s not. I lived in London for fifteen years, moved up here last winter. Bother you?”
London. If this park is heaven, then London is the paragon of the furthest boundaries of perfection. It’s a dream that my family have refused to let me speak of; a dream which I can only begin to hope for when I’m hidden beneath bedsheets and under my pillow; a dream which sees me fleeing the North for good aged eighteen and taking all my worldly possessions to St Pancras Station before doing something, anything, just to stop me from ending up back in the shadow of Old Trafford and my father. Yes, it does bother me. I want to see everything; Big Ben, Tower Bridge, Buckingham Palace, the lights of the West End.
“I WANT TO GO TO LONDON!!” I shriek, and ramble on about how it’s my life’s aim to end up there. He looks slightly startled.
“It’s not that great...” Because he’s somewhat trampling on my dreams and doesn’t realise how important this is to me, I decide to annoy him the only way I can.
“Aaaaaaaaaaaall the people, SO MANY PEOPLE! And they aaaaaaaaaaaaaaall go hand in hand, HAND IN HAND THROUGH THEIIIIIIIIIIIIR, PARKLIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIFE...” I shout, completely tunelessly. Everyone stares at me. I’m nearly sorry for ruining their aestival idyll. He looks annoyed, and his eyes look even more beguiling.
“Shut up...” he mutters in that pleasantly soporific London accent. When I start up again, he grabs my poor, defenceless hand and hauls me off to a corner of the park that hasn’t been frequented by anyone. We crumple beside a resplendent birch in silence.
I’m not really sure how it happens, but tired from all the walking, we look at each other. Really look at each other. His wavy mahogany hair is glinting and his eyes are even more alluring than usual. He’s fairly skinny, but not the usual skeletons that I like. And I suppose that both of us are fairly bored as the summer reaches its encore, which is why five minutes later we’re not talking or looking at each other anymore.