Thought I would post and update here. I have started writing since my Dad died.
Goolish tales. Dirty Old Town.
Saturday . The night of freedom. The night that only the young truly understand. A time to dress up, be yourself, get drunk, get a girl if possible. After the grind of the fish docks, after stinking to high heaven for a week, a chance to shine. Washing out the last of the days fish boxes, maybe a bit too fast to do a proper job. Shoving the white coat, now stinking and brown with blood stains into his bag, Daz lit up a ciggie and headed home.
Winter evening. The sun was already sinking, not setting- under the weight of melancholy. Neither did it make anything brighter. A constant gloom hung over the town- not just industrial smog, but also caused by the weight of care that rested on the residents shoulders. It caused most of them to walk with a slump; eyes downcast. People walked at speed in a hurry to get from where they were, but never really arriving at where they wanted to be. Goole is like that. People do not leave. Its not that they mean to stay. Its just that there doesnt seem to be any choice. Towns on the edge are like that. One road in, one road out. Or so it seemed. There was the back road through the villages, but that proved only one thing, that once you got out of the town the earth was flat. Flat is all that can be seen. It is quite possible that from the outskirts of Goole the very edge of the world can be seen, and very few people would dare to go out and look over the edge. There was the railway too. You could go as far as Hull or Donny by train, for the football maybe. But Daz worked Saturdays and so football was a rare treat.
It was hard to feel lucky to have work when that work stank so badly. Daz walked in the shadows- didnt want to bump into anyone smelling like this. Some use a grammar school education. It went badly wrong somewhere. A clever lad, but more interested in anything but the job in hand. I am constantly astonished by his good opinion of himself. The schoolmaster had written in his final report. And that was one thing the teacher had right- Daz was pleased with himself- but once he smelt of fish, he started to wonder. Worst of all, he had to walk through the town to get home, right through the area where later he would shine as one of Gooles more eligible bachelors. What helped was that he was clearly better looking than any of his mates, no oil painting but on the top of the pile round here.
Goolish tales. Dirty Old Town.
Saturday . The night of freedom. The night that only the young truly understand. A time to dress up, be yourself, get drunk, get a girl if possible. After the grind of the fish docks, after stinking to high heaven for a week, a chance to shine. Washing out the last of the days fish boxes, maybe a bit too fast to do a proper job. Shoving the white coat, now stinking and brown with blood stains into his bag, Daz lit up a ciggie and headed home.
Winter evening. The sun was already sinking, not setting- under the weight of melancholy. Neither did it make anything brighter. A constant gloom hung over the town- not just industrial smog, but also caused by the weight of care that rested on the residents shoulders. It caused most of them to walk with a slump; eyes downcast. People walked at speed in a hurry to get from where they were, but never really arriving at where they wanted to be. Goole is like that. People do not leave. Its not that they mean to stay. Its just that there doesnt seem to be any choice. Towns on the edge are like that. One road in, one road out. Or so it seemed. There was the back road through the villages, but that proved only one thing, that once you got out of the town the earth was flat. Flat is all that can be seen. It is quite possible that from the outskirts of Goole the very edge of the world can be seen, and very few people would dare to go out and look over the edge. There was the railway too. You could go as far as Hull or Donny by train, for the football maybe. But Daz worked Saturdays and so football was a rare treat.
It was hard to feel lucky to have work when that work stank so badly. Daz walked in the shadows- didnt want to bump into anyone smelling like this. Some use a grammar school education. It went badly wrong somewhere. A clever lad, but more interested in anything but the job in hand. I am constantly astonished by his good opinion of himself. The schoolmaster had written in his final report. And that was one thing the teacher had right- Daz was pleased with himself- but once he smelt of fish, he started to wonder. Worst of all, he had to walk through the town to get home, right through the area where later he would shine as one of Gooles more eligible bachelors. What helped was that he was clearly better looking than any of his mates, no oil painting but on the top of the pile round here.
