Just a few days left for the Monthly Competition. Hurry, hurry, hurry!
Just a few days left for the Monthly Competition. Hurry, hurry, hurry!
powered by bulletin

I Remember

About Forums Den of Writers Blogs I Remember

Viewing 3 posts - 1 through 3 (of 3 total)
  • Author
    Posts
  • #11819
    Athelstone
    Moderator

    I remember meeting you, in 1978. The person who introduced you said you were a good bloke. It didn’t recommend you to me. But as the evening wore on, you did seem decent enough.

    I remember jeans and a white T-shirt and a scruffy canvas jacket.

    I remember bumping into you later in the Student Union bar. It was good to see you.

    I remember the Bevois Town Hotel. You left your pewter tankard there. It closed years ago.

    I remember the Onslow Hotel and the Magnum Club. We probably drank too much beer then.

    I remember Alison. She was the reason you loved that song so much.

    I remember talking until three in the morning.

    I remember three card brag until four in the morning.

    I remember standing on the pavement outside that Southampton Cinema. We’d just seen The Empire Strikes Back. ‘Well,’ you said, ‘they’d better get a move on with the next one.’

    I remember pouring out my heart to you about Debby. You said, ‘Come on, I’ll buy you a pint.’

    I remember hitching back from London. I got a ride with a psychopathic Catholic in a Cortina. You got a lift with Richard Hannon the racehorse trainer, in a Rolls.

    I remember when you headed off to Germany to be a bricklayer although you’d never even handled a trowel.

    I remember when you got back. You told me about dancing in a German disco, carried on the shoulders of Norman, that colossal skinhead. It was to Hit me with your rhythm stick. They thought you were mad, but they didn’t laugh. Because of Norman.

    I remember when we ran out of money. It happened a lot.

    I remember when we pursued the same girl. At least she thought it was funny.

    I remember us scouring the pavement one night for a sixpence so we’d have enough for ten sovereign from the machine on the Avenue. We even looked on top of a bus stop.

    I remember us being so hungry that we said we’d eat—well, I won’t say—but we’d have eaten it in a pie.

    I remember laughing.

    I remember laughing with you so hard that we both had tears running down our cheeks.

    I remember we laughed a lot.

    I remember when you moved away to work. We were busy people though. It didn’t seem so bad.

    I remember you visited Dominique and me in our flat. You came with whatsername—from Norfolk. You seemed OK, but that didn’t last.

    I remember writing, but neither of us could keep letters going.

    I remember your wedding. You were so happy.

    I remember you dancing with Wendy. You couldn’t stop smiling.

    I remember breakfast in the hotel the next day.

    I remember when Wendy died.

    I remember I didn’t know what to say. Later you said that you just had to get on with it. You had two boys to look after.

    I remember when you brought two toddlers down to see us. We had a picnic on the beach.

    I remember that you looked tired. We had a Fiat Multipla and I think you had a Toyota. It seemed important to discuss that.

    I remember conversations about telling machines, and computer code. They didn’t have the same fun in them as our earlier conversations.

    I remember we were busy.

    I remember that our correspondence slowed down.

    I remember you wrote to me that you were thinking of buying a flat in Southampton, because of the happy memories.

    I remember that you came to my birthday party after I had retired.

    I remember it was so good to see you. You had changed, but you were still there and, in some way, just as I remembered you.

    I remember how we couldn’t believe we’d got so old.

    I remember the excitement I felt when I decided to turn that casual ‘we must get together for a drink’ into a real weekend visit.

    I remember that I could tell you anything. Anything at all.

    I remember that now I can tell you nothing.

    Paul Trafford 1959 to 2022

     

     

     

    #12082
    Sandra
    Participant

    Heartbreaking this, Ath. Good memories but so much sadness in that final line.

    #12083
    Athelstone
    Moderator

    I went to his funeral a few weeks back. Still a bit raw for everybody but I’m glad I went. He came from a BIG family with ten brothers and two sisters and it was very interesting to meet some of them. Did have one amusing incident. I spoke with the wife of the eldest brother who told me that she always found the brothers, including her husband, ‘a difficult lot’. She said, ‘I always thought Paul was by far the nicest.’

Viewing 3 posts - 1 through 3 (of 3 total)
  • You must be logged in to reply to this topic.