Lovely guy, lovely intelligent guy – I’m not arguing with the appraisal. I am saying he takes a long time to get stuff out. There are pauses between his words occasionally that are long enough for me to do film and do the post-production on a three-hour fantasy film. The Hobbit? No, a different one.
When you have someone like that it’s hard not to scream the next word when you know what’s coming. “We …………………………………………………..think…………………………………….” THAT, WE FUCKING THINK THAT….spit it out. Of course I don’t scream that. Instead I struggle to pay attention to what he’s saying, splitting my thoughts between (1) wondering if everyone else is thinking what I am thinking (i.e. are we all thinking: I wonder if they are all thinking about what we are all thinking) at which point I realise I am not French enough to get that philosophical about it; (2) Has anyone booking an after dinner speaker got the two Mervyn Kings confused, and occasionally (3) please don’t finish one of these stretched out sentences with “which Phil can explain a lot better than I can….”
Later on well I am running I am thinking about the 351 bus route for some reason. The 351 used to go from Carbook (Stalybridge) to Ashton via Tame Valley. It was very much its own bus route, it didn’t even go into Stalybridge and stop at the bus station – it went around Demense Drive and got on Acres Lane with its main stop ‘in’ Stalybridge being at the back of (what was then) Kwik Save.
This has made me remember why I was thinking about the 351: I was thinking about the Co-Op, which was the highlight at the end of going shopping with my mum when I was little because of its toy section – upstairs near the windows. And the reason I was thinking of the Co-Op? Because I was getting annoyed that when I was little, four or five say, I recall being laughed at because I pronounced the prix of Grand Prix as ‘pricks’ and that Co-Op toy section was the first place I saw the phrase, presumably on the front of a racing car game.
I’m sorry OK? I’m sorry that I had not been immersed in Formula 1 enough at five years of age that I had heard the phrase grand prix. Come to think of it I had probably heard the phrase but not thought that’s how it was spelled and thus didn’t think of it when I saw ‘Grand Prix’ on a box. I’M FUCKING SORRY, OK? I’m sorry that we didn’t have long conversations about the influence of French on the English language around the dining room table. We did nothing around the dining room table. I did often eat there but it was mainly on my own, where I spoke to no-one.
And why was I thinking about the ONE occasion when I remember someone doing a half-chuckle at this understandable mistake (understandable for a five-year-old)? I have no fucking idea. Clearly there in the vault though isn’t it? Maybe that is the source of my self-loathing.
Whatevz. Anyway, we would either get the 343 or the 351 home because they stopped out the back of Kwik Save/Co-Op. For some reason my favourite buses were always the Maine ones. I have a feeling that way back when it was just called the number 4…might have been the 34. Eventually it was the 234 and 235 at some point.