WHAT I LIKE TO DO

A Monday afternoon in ‘66 was when I discovered the meaning of what I actually liked to do. I remember the day well. Just one lecture that day so college ended early. Early enough for me to head to the driving range and collect a few buckets of balls before I headed home. You see, the range was new and had no collection tractor so for ten minutes every hour the bays closed for ball pick-up. Then the sprint began, something I had well and truly sussed. In ten minutes, I could collect six buckets. Do that twice and I’d earn a crisp one-pound note. Brilliant for only twenty minute’s work.

   Every Monday and Thursday, every week for six weeks and I had accumulated a thin pile of twelve notes and plenty of ideas for their best use that mostly revolved around girls and drunken trips to the Ricky Tick, by a long way the best rhythm and blues club in town. Those thoughts made me smile; they made me happy. I was completely absorbed and wrapped up in the life of an entrepreneurial sixteen-year-old. For me and my mates it was a great way of life, just the best, it was what we really liked to do. Work hard, earn the dough and splurge it on a good time. A constant process of reward and excess that was deemed an offence to miss. 

 

As I pushed the front door that day I heard the familiar Monday afternoon sounds. The creak of splayed metal legs, the sudden hiss and, of course, the humming, an almost silent murmuring of an under the breath melody. A dull thump as the weight landed on the heat-resistant pad easing the pressure on the legs. I knew the process, the finishing, the folding, the fiddling with buttons to make a shirt stay together to neatly sit on the counter-top waiting to head to my father’s drawer. 

The kitchen door was open and my mum’s smile as she saw me come in made my already perfect life really shine. Her eyes would sparkle the way they did when she saw me come home, extending a warmth of greeting far beyond the norm. I don’t know why but she loved ironing. The piles of clothes, sheets and pillowcases carefully laid out so neatly that even the dimmest idiot couldn't miss that obvious fact.  

“I’ll put the kettle on,” I said. 

“That would be nice… good day?” she replied. 

I waved my small stash and grinned. 

Smiling again she spread a t-towel and picked up the iron. Started to hum a different tune. The frayed lead my father had repaired with insulation tape sparked where constant action had caused a split. I looked at her and saw she was oblivious to the potential danger. 

“Should you stop?” I asked. 

“Why? I’ve still got a bit to do.” 

“The tape’s split. It sparked.” 

“Did it… no matter, your father will repair it again.” Ignoring the sparks, she picked up another shirt. 

I put the kettle on the gas then moved to the front door.  

“Where are you going? You’ve just come in,” she asked as I pulled the door. 

“I have forgotten something, that’s all. Can you watch the kettle and make the tea? I’ll be back before it gets cold.” Then I sprinted hard to the shops no more than a few minutes away. 

 

Old man Morgan, wearing his brown store coat with too many pens in the breast pocket, silently wrapped my parcel. I handed him ten of my twelve notes and headed out the door. Straight back home to a lukewarm cuppa and a curious look. 

“What’s that you’ve bought?” she asked. 

I gave her the package and said, “Something for you, mum.” 

Now, I know it’s kind of an odd present to buy your mum; flowers or chocs might be more a sign of affection but the look, her smile, the small tears in her eyes said it all. Thoughts and impromptu actions really do count. 

While the new iron warmed, we sat with another cuppa, “I suppose you’re out again this weekend,” she said. 

“No, I thought I’d stay in for a change.” 

“Any particular reason?” 

“No, I just fancy a break. That’s all.” 

The truth... I was now skint and needed a spell of earning to restore the coffers. Besides, for me I’d realised what was important. The things I liked to do had taken on a new perspective. I realised it would mean a load of flack which I knew I could handle and, besides, it was well worth it. There would be other good times to have soon enough.