Back in the sock drawer…

Out with friends and colleagues last night. A year on. Exchanging tales and escapades, remembering japes and tragedies. Long gone, but still around clinging to the corners of our minds, meeting up for a few beers every now and then.

I wore my passes. Putting them on like a chain of office, a badge of authority to speed me on my way. I kidded them that I never take them off. In truth I haven’t worn them since my final day, lifting them over my head and burying them in my sock drawer, right at at the back, to be put away for ever.

Well, not quite. I put them on again as I left the house and strode down to the station to catch the tram to Manchester. How strange, as soon as they were on I felt like the me I was back then. That old me, the cheeky chappy, rude, and loud and always up for a laugh.

Tall tales, embellishments, and just a few white lies. Building the legend where none exists, gilding the lily that faded long ago.

A pigs ear from a silk purse.

Still, it was good to see the old faces. Not everyone was there, but they were remembered as we snatched back a few hours of our past. Good to put my identity back on for a while, wearing it like a mask and only taking it off when I arrived back home, peeling it from my face as I lifted my cards from around my neck.

It’s all there. On the memory stick that holds every report I ever wrote and the ninety thousand words of my novel - the one I began when I was so alone in Philadelphia. Those cards could open every door – Manchester, Bristol, Birmingham, Scarborough, Reading, Slough, King of Prussia, Cedar Rapids, Bangalore, and Hyderabad. The miles those cards have travelled, the plane rides they have taken – from Gracelands to Mysore, New York to Honfleur.

Me young to old, hair dark to grey, face planed to puffy.

Put back in the sock drawer.

It was good to see my friends last night.