The question was posed today ‘What are pockets for?’
What are pockets for?
WHAT are pockets for?
Why pockets, as any small boy will tell you, are the place where boys and men keep their dreams.
The contents of a pocket can tell you much about the pocket owner, more probably than the trousers he’s wearing or that body that fits inside them.
The content of a pocket is a window to a man’s desire, ambition, interests, even to his very soul itself. If he has one.
Above are the contents of my pocket on this day 4th October, 2011. It isn’t a single pocket, a single pocket is never enough for a man of my appetites, but the contents of the two front and the two back pockets of my trousers along with the contents of my small shirt pocket. I have removed my mobile phone and my wallet from the equation – my mobile phone being an embarrassment (tring-tring) and my wallet quite another story, and one that might one day may warrant a post of its own
So here are the contents of my pockets – pocket by pocket by pocket.
Front left:
My small change. So small it contains my lucky thrupenny bit and a shopping trolley coin with a butterfly motif that doesn’t fit any Aldi shopping trolley - but the butterfly is so beautiful.
A large brown rubber band. Well, you never know when you are going to make a wind-up aeroplane. Flying away to the whirr of the rubber. Look Ma, I'm both of the Wright brothers and I'm Top Of The World.
A thing for putting together flat pack furniture. I made some weeks ago but this seems to keep getting transferred from one pair of trousers to another with my small change, poking me and prodding me like a key to something that I don't want to unlock.
A hazel nut. Just in case I need to tempt a squirrel.
Front right – where I keep my wallet (Ha- ha).
A fake Swiss army penknife. It has a lot of great tools including scissors, screwdriver, toothpick, and a thing for getting stones out of horses hooves – which is a pretty useless actually as no way am I getting that near to a horse. I like its fakeness, I know the feel of each blade as it cuts me to the quick.
Two red postie bands. The posties drop them everywhere and I am compulsed to pick them up. I have a box full. I may sell them back to the post office one day, but it's the colour that attracts me - danger, blood, and morning eyes.
A small coil of green wire. Just in case I need a small coil of green wire - which should I cut? The red or the green?... Kaboom!
A yellow sherbet boiled sweet. There’s always a boiled sweet. Just check YOUR pockets, it'll be there - a sticky , messy mess. Gumming your pockets and causing your small change distress.
Back left:
Another penknife. This time a small, square, almost antique, steel sellotape penknife. I love it - it’s a small piece of history. Small blades scoring small marks on time. Tick - tock - slash - tick - tock - slash.
A bronze picture hanging ring. No idea where the other one is. In the forest if a picture falls does anybody hear the sound of one hand clapping?
My piece of lucky pottery. Yes lucky pottery! I found it on a beach in
Back right:
A few bits of chewing gum. There’s always chewing gum. Check YOUR pockets. Does your chewing gum lose its flavour on the bedpost overnight?
Frank’s phone number. Don’t ask. Let’s just say he’s some random guy my dad met on the pier and who might be able to help me with financial matters. Wonder if he’s from
Small white pencil: No idea where I picked this up, not in the bookies for sure. A small white pencil to write down things. A pencil to even even up the score. The pros and cons, the cons and pros... but the answers? Who the hell really knows?
Shirt pocket: Where I keep my phone.
Memory stick. So that I can… sorry, I forgot and just as well.
Co-codamol capsules. For myyyyy back and other pains.
Staedler lumocolor pen. Ready and waiting to doodle my doodles, to take me out and abroad and fill my soul.
So there you go - my pocketful of hopes and dreams.
Dreams and hopes, some coins, some pills.
And thoughts, and mopes, and bands, and thrills.
The contents of my pockets, no more.
A gateway to myself for sure.
Dreams and hopes, some coins, some pills.
My thoughts and mopes.
Make of me what you will.
I make every effort to keep my pockets clear though there is always loose change. Even that has reduced since I became agreeable to handing it over the counter. Paula has a theory that men would rather hand a note over the counter even if they have the change. I think she is correct. No, my desire for empty pockets is as a result of wearing so many out from the inside.
ReplyDeleteTricia Kitt on Facebook:
ReplyDeletehate to think as I am wearing my son's cast-offs! I have boilwashed them though, so should be safe (checked for electronics first!)
Martin A W Holmes on Facebook. "Can you empty out your pockets, please, sir...?" Don't tell me that you woz nabbed by the peelers, Mr. H...
ReplyDeleteLiz Shore Blimey, all that stuff must be heavy to carry around!! I have not a thing in my pockets - I hate to carry stuff in my clothes, but my handbags are another story... Jacob's pockets are amazing though, I cannot believe the detritus he can accumulate in the day or two he wears a pair of jeans for, he must be a real boy :)
ReplyDeleteNick Jennings on Facebook:
ReplyDeletewhere's the bit of string? there has to be a bit of string doesn't there? any boys pocket should have a penknife and a bit of string, with those you can do anything :-D
Rebecca Brookes-Tsang on Facebook:
ReplyDeleteloved your blog andy!!
David Bell on Facebook:
ReplyDeleteI have mostly fluff in my pockets.
I changed this late at night adding some more thoughts about the items in my pockets, darker thoughts. Strange what a few hours morbid pondering and a glass or two of red can do to words.
ReplyDeleteMaybe I should have stuck to fluff.
Andy Lloyd e-mailed.
ReplyDeleteJust been catching up on your blogs- some inspired stuff. I really think they could actually be getting even better!
Red rubber bands! I thought I was the only one. I have a pile of them on a shelf in the cellar- why can't I walk past one without picking it up? I will never have a use for thousands of rubber bands so why do I do it? There is a strange satisfaction in seeing the small, wormy mountain grow but my family are embarrased when I stop in the street to retrieve one from the gutter. I don't bother with broken bands and bands of any other colour do not count. What is going on in our minds?