So - it's Saturday. I'm doing boring stuff - bills, filing, more bills. I stare down at "George's Desk*" - it's a beautiful old antique desk with green leather covering and gold trimmings around the side of the leather. The kind of desk you see lawyers sitting behind in those big John Grisham movies. I write at this desk. It is solid and inspiring - and it's been a reliable desk to me over the years. And now it's covered in five inch high scrawls. Big giant indelible pen scrawls on lovely soft antique green leather.
It doesn't take a Sherlock to work this one out. The same letter arcs it's way randomly across the desk. "F....F...F...F...F...F"
"Fintan! Is there something you want to tell me about daddy's desk?"
Patter patter patter patter...excited child appears at desk. Excited child looks at desk and daddy's face. Excited child suddenly goes very quiet. He thinks for a while.
"I was just trying to write your name daddy..." he puts on his best attempt at cute little rascal. I vow that I will remain annoyed and lay down a strict law. Insead I tell him that his F is very good - except my name begins with a T. Ahhh of course - you were writing your name first. Ok that makes sense. Fintan loves Daddy.
Somehow - in a millisecond he distracts me - my lecture goes out the window and to make matters worse - somehow we have ended up playing "Robot Dinosaurs that shoot beams when they roar" on the bloody computer instead. How the hell did that happen? I'm meant to be paying bills and writing my book - not laser blasting enemies on my flying dinosaur!
Still - it's good to savour these moments. Life has a way of sneaking up on you when least expected and jabbing you in the kidneys. So you gotta enjoy it. Every minute of it! (Except the bits when you have to pay the bills!). Like the poor bloke yesterday.
Yesterday I took a little stroll at lunchtime. Down out of the office and along the golf course. The Welsh hills in the background, surrounded by rolling green and the odd bunker - and a buzzard circling high above in the clear blue sky. It's a gorgeous day. Beautiful. Up ahead some workmen are digging a hole and laying new tarmac cos the sewers have collapsed. And there's a dark and deadly backlog making it's way to the posh houses overlooking the golf course.
One of the guys is on the grass. Collapsed. Not looking good. And there is panic nearby. We cross over the road to check things out - jumping the sticky tarmac and sensing something serious is afoot. My mate races back to the office to get the first aider and with luck a defribulator. I sit down with the chap and try to give him words of encouragement. Which is probably about the last thing you want when you're in the middle of a whopping great heart attack. But...I'm pretty sure that you're meant to keep people talking - keep them conscious or they might slip away.
It's all very surreal. I move his bright yellow workman's tabbard from off his face and mouth. Breathing through tabbard cannot be easy at the best of times and definitely not when the tickers gone awol. I give him a reassuring pat on his arm and remind him that the ambulance is on it's way. My main concern is that if he is gonna die and I fail to rescucitate him. Well - at least he had someone with him. He wasn't alone. And then I try to remember the rescusitation techniques and hope the ambulance arrives soon. I don't fancy breaking ribs and chest pumping - but I will of course do it if he goes.
My mate from work comes running back up the road, directing the ambulance down the lane as he goes.
We let the ambulance crew take over and eventually head back.
"Wow - that put's things in a little perspective," he says to me.
"Yeah. I think I need a cup of tea..." I reply.
Later that night - with the kids in the garden - friends round - BBQ nicely grilling our lamb kofta's in the corner (we've gone dead posh!). I wonder if the guy made it. I hope he did. The lads on his work crew said they'd worked together for 36 years. Wow - 36 years with the same buddies. That's impressive. That's a year older than me. Jeeeez. That bloke's been digging holes and fixing sh*t backlogs for longer than I've been alive.
I slug back another beer and enjoy the moment at the BBQ. Lily launching herself off the slide whilst sitting inside a giant plastic box (don't try this one at home kids!); Fintan and Lily bashing the living crap out of Chris with foam swords. Both the Sarah's bashing the living crap out of Chris with the foam swords they just stole off the kids. These are good times - good times indeed and they seem all the more precious when you realise that any day could be a Friday like the bloke at the golf course. So enjoy them. Do it! Get out there! Have fun. And must of all - no regrets!
* Note on George's Desk. It's not Georgian - as some might think. It used to belong to a family friend called George. Hence "George's Desk". But he jacked his job in back in the eighties. Learnt how to sail a boat and then spent the next thirty years sailing around the Med and the Caribbean on his forty foot ketch. George was never very good at cooking - I seem to remember that dry spaghetti was his speciality - but he was a good laugh and a rogue seadog if ever there was one. Hopefully he's still out there somewhere - sailing the seven seas and wondering whatever happened to his desk. Again - just to be perfectly clear - he only called it "desk". I don't think anyone talks about their property with their own name prefixed beforehand. That would be weird. Frickin' weird.
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