Autumn Approaches, and my brush with the law.

I’m not a fan of writing melancholic observations of the changing colour of leaves, it can be completely boring for anyone else to read, and even more boring for me to write.
So, the 1st of September is upon us; the evenings feel that little bit shorter, the air is slightly less forgiving on bare skin and the leaves, the awkward cusses they are, have begun to turn bronze.
Everywhere, kids are being fitted up for uniforms in shops whose fronts bombard the public with huge bubble-fonts that scream “Back to School!” These are always accompanied by pictures of kids having simply THE best time of their lives in their new non-iron shirts; they’re all laughing, showing bright white incisors. What are they laughing at? If your child is anything like me at school age they’d most likely deduce the same conclusion: me.
I hated going back to school, not that there’s anything unusual in that. I think I was always struck by the fact that the summer was largely spent being patronised by the world at large (not being able to do ANYTHING without being considered a lout and, just as this is settling in, big posters appear on the high street to remind us that term starts all over again...it hardly seemed fair.
I know from my time in retail that the ‘back to school’ season is marketed at all ages. (I refer to it as ‘time’ deliberately, the branch of River Island I worked for when I was in college wasn’t QUITE like Broadmoor. I think they got dental care.)
It seemed so cynical, essentially saying “If you want your kid to look THIS good, make sure they have these shoes.” It baffles me that people can be that easily fooled, especially as it pressurises people to do the best by their children, usually out of the fear that they aren’t going to fit in unless they do so.
Anyway, enough of that. I never told people about my close encounter with the Met Police upon my arrival to the UK...
Gary and Katrina took me to a ship-wreck research centre (it also had a pirate section for the kids, which Gary and I found ourselves in) and then onto a few bars. We had devilled eggs in Mac’s Diner; the main diner area used to be a Harley Davidson garage, the decor giving honour to all of this. The menu was promised to be no-nonsense BBQ-fest, and so it proved to be.
Not being able to make up my mind, I chose to have ‘A little bit of everything’ which was:
Mac & Cheese
Soup
Beer-Can Chicken
Shredded Pork
BBQ Ribs
Potatoes
Quite frankly, it was awesome. I also had to contend with my belt, straining at its seams.
Boarding my flight after a few beers, a hearty meal and a last dose of North Carolina sunshine, I boarded my plane.
I’ve never been a good flyer. Every time I sit through a take-off my mind starts to wander to the sheer power in those engines, and how the slightest problem could effectively blow us all to pieces.
When I’m not thinking about that, I’m thinking about food. The nasty, freeze-dried, vacuum-packed ready-meals that are thrust at you as you contemplate watching more bloody films to pass the time.
Needless to say, I didn’t sleep. When I arrived back in Gatwick, I was shagged. It was 7am and my prepaid tickets to get to Manchester weren’t valid until 12.05pm. I had time to kill, but first I needed to...
BAM! I did the ‘falling’ asleep thing that people do when they are semi-dreaming and jerked awake. I’d been stood in line at a Tube-Ticket station at London Victoria at the time though. After sitting on a bench, drifting in and out of consciousness I was approached by a scary looking policeman, whose demeanour suggested that he’d like to throw me in the nick ‘with all the other nonces’. I explained to him that I wasn’t drunk, nor on illegal substances and I was just trying to get to Manchester. Clearly thinking that I was unlikely to be a problem for him if that was really the case, he let me go without another word. I promptly fell flat onto my face.