Not Carver But a Story All the Same

He pulls up outside his house and I walk over the road from where we are staying this week at the mother-in-law’s to say hello to Ray who has got his own gravy – the good pension, he tells me in talking about elderly needs, and all that this buys layered in the back of the car, this red runaround which uncannily through an unknowing local purchase by Ray once belonged to my father-in-law Jim who had driven it till quite old and with a shade more geriatric danger than his neighbour now does – parked half on and half off the kerb – and then Ray’s oblivious disregard for, at the time, a dribbling nose, and his young man’s performances in the Black and White Minstrels all those years ago which we only learned in a passing anecdote while talking about music at Jim’s funeral.

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