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alright. new yankee candle locked and loaded (flavour: london christmas tea? odd but love it), fresh cuppa brewing and steaming on the sill of the window beside my ever-present green mitten, nails applied with hardener, quilts adorned on bed, naked as we came playing through my speaker. yes. i am totally ready for autumn. i am anew! tis the season my little honeysuckles- tis the merriest season.

tonight i address another person with an imperative tale for you all, and i chronicle a story which i possibly shouldve noted down many years prior. unfortunately for me and you though, the person whom the story belongs to has very selfishly DIED. the bastard. the cheek of it! well. 

pic of the week: new hair <3

are you sitting comfortably? 

then let's begin.

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we begin our story in a small paper mill atop a hill. picture a seaside town where there is only peace; the main attraction is a small market house museum and a statue of red-beard looking out onward- surveying passing ships. watchet. the year is 1950 something, and our protagonist has just turned fifteen, henceforth it is about time he got a job and started earning his piece. the boy lumps his way up the top of the hill, and finds the place where the news is papered every morning. (like what i did there? ah. anyway-)

the boy works every morning- bicycle at the ready, he heads down to the paper mill 4 oclock sharp. this would become the routine for the rest of his life until death, waking up at 4 oclock and sleeping at 10; only ever needing six hours of sleep to continue the next day. upon having his designated six hours, the boy would circle the town and distribute each individual rolled-up paper for each individual rolled-up resident. for two years this would continue, until finally he handed his hat into the workman's office and resigned his post as paper boy, in favour of a new role as night bartender in the pub on the docks. 

the place reeked of the fishermen who frequented it, but welcomed them all the same.

in his later years, he confessed to me that the reason he favoured the role so fondly was as follows: "well you see, when the girls would come back off their holidays, the first things they'd want to do would be to have a drink, and the first face they'd see who gave them the damn drinks would be mine". of course, he followed this up with a knowing wink and smug grin which led me to believe that those first drinks served were in fact the first of many, and our paper boy was incredibly lucky when it came to bartending.

preceding six months of his pulling pints and other such things, our boy (now very much a man) arrived at the pub for his regular nightly shift on a brisk winter's evening. he hung his jacket, rolled his sleeves, and began to serve. when in through the door, a woman appeared. her hair was so dark it could almost be considered jet black, but not quite so that you couldn't comment on the brown hues. cut short just above her shoulders, it framed her face in such a way that not only highlighted her wide eyes but also played tribute to her above-average height and slim figure. 

and "the most magnificent smile"

her name was annie, and she captured the attention of one suspect bartender like nothing ever had. it was as if he had been hit incredibly hard in the gut and had each breath knocked from his body for the forseeable future. when she laughed, her eyes followed the corners of her grin. when she danced, the room gazed upon her and her mighty glory as she twirled upon ankles held up by slight strappy black heels.

he fell in love with her right then and there, he told me, and he knew that she was the one. they spent many years falling out of bars together, playing poker and black jack with new pals, conversing in the world of politics, fortune, beauty, etc. and, as the seasons changed, he grew more and more fond of her. day by day, he worked himself up to asking her to be his. and one night, he invited her to dinner with himself and a few of his friends.

"as it turns out, i accidentally introduced her to the man she married".

this might be the time in the story where i tell you that our bartending friend and sweet miss annie do not end up together. and this might also be the time where i mention his name was geoffrey, and he was my grandfather. 

when grandad married grandma, they spent many happy years together- but not before grandma threatened "geoffrey, if you don't stop talking about that woman i will leave you". when grandma died two years before i was born, grandad sat beside her and held her hand as she went. when he later relayed this to me, he said it was the second worst day of his life. when i asked the first, he said it was last year when he had finally decided to call. and when annie's husband answered the phone, grandad wasn't met with an enraged husband but instead another man grieving the life of the same woman with short black hair who wore strappy black heels. 

just before i went to college, i cut my hair short and dyed it black. when grandad saw me he started crying, and told me of annie. he said i looked just like her. i hugged him very tightly and let him cry on my shoulder. we ordered chinese and listened to crazy by patsy cline and travellin man by ricky nelson just about twenty times. 

my dad never knew about annie, but mum and i did. in this way she lives on through us. and whenever my hair is short and dark again, i think of her. 

and i think of my grandad.

♥

now, time to sink a bottle of sauvignon blanc and listen to sinatra(s) me thinks.