Wet Black Pants

Took a call from our Joe at 6:30 this morning. He was at Warwick University where he is currently earning a few bob as a waiter at the Scarman House conference centre. Only he had forgotten his trousers. That's not to say he wasn't wearing any. At any rate his lower half was covered by when I caught up with him. It was just that he'd forgotten his regulation black ones. Could I please get them to him as soon as possible?

His mum found the trousers before I did. They'd been in the wash over night, but now needed to go in the tumble drier. I called Joe back to tell him this. 'No' he insisted. 'I need them now. I'll have to wear them wet.' 'Are you sure?' I queried.

So I got in the car clutching a crumpled pair of cold cotton leggings in glistening black. I turned the hot fan on full blast and so too the heated seat beside me. I met him outside the Varsity and saw him running towards me. No time for a chat, I handed the trousers to him through the car window. Hiding a grin of incredulity, I noticed how quickly they chilled in the open, pre-dawn air.

Talking of incredulity, at lunch, wandering from the church through the park, I allowed myself to answer a beckoning from the river bank. I knew this to be foolish long before I set foot on the muddy, slithering path, replete with stingers, brambles and tree roots. And at ten to two, a mile upstream, I unfathomably managed to kid myself that if I walked just a tinsy winsy bit further along the river bank, I would find a better picture and still be back at work before two.