Pages within the Poetry and Prose section:
This page: Poetry from K to S
Quack
This Saturday was one of the few I had free from football. Naturally, I took the bus to Manchester to start my journey there.
As ever, I stayed in the city centre, as the thought of a trip to Kettering was twinned with 'Manana'. With an England game on, I did my best to avoid this, and thought of the free buses from the centre to a museum in Cheetham. I was pleased to go this way the following day, avoiding omnibus editions of those besides Northern Counties bodied Leyland Olympians in Greater Manchester Transport livery.
For dinner, I shunned the 'Food Chain', all plastic butties and Greggs' pasties for munchies at Afflecks Palace, where succulent sausages took centre stage on an all-day breakfast. On completing my eating, I continued browsing. I took the stairs to the top floor for the retrospective clothing store. The stall was packed. The clientele were in the way, looking for leather trousers. As ever, the coats were some distance from the ties and jumpers. I wanted to outdo my boss with a rather dapper Paisley patterned kipper.
Looking for the ties, I was taken by surprise by a rather extraordinary jersey, that I had last seen seventeen years ago. I looked a little closer. The jumper looked familiar in its Blackpool sand colour. I turned the garment round. It made me jump.
There I saw nearly fifty white stylised ducks with orange feet and beaks. It reminded me of some happy years in West Didsbury. That same jumper was worn by a favourite teacher of mine from when I was nine. The last time I saw her wear it was when Deacon Blue's 'Real Gone Kid' was a top ten hit.
For the fiver they were charging, I bought the thing as a momento of seventeen years ago. I asked a few others if they remembered - or even wore one of these jerseys. I held the thing, and it took me back to West Didsbury. It took me back to the '80's. It took me back to the lesson with the Indian collage made of curry to celebrate Diwali.
