What’s this about, man?

A sunny day walking down Nuns Moor Road. Down the hill, past Leazes Park. Sliding down the Barrack Road. Quiet. Bank holiday.

I step into the road to avoid the bloke driving the mini refuse cleaner. Thirty years ago, I dressed up as a cow for a whole week round here. Lonely Youth.

“Fokkinhelmanluk at that, lukkatit. Wheya’s tha bus, man? Wheya’s tha bus?”

A sharp crackle of complaint. Swigging from a bottle.

Fella has a point, mind, his leg’s a mess. Bandaged. Mobile Zimmer frame given a shake. 

Two days before, I saw a Barn Owl perched in the rafters in a barn, used as a backstage at a rock festival.

-Dad, tell me about Pins. What were you doing?

-Why ask me about that, Richard. 

Fluttering eyelids, slight intake of breath, meaning he’s trying to put me off.

-What were the rules? There’s lots of notes, I can’t make much sense of it. What was Hassreich? Or Donovan? And why the welded metal miniature firing gantries?

A long exasperated sigh. 

-Don’t be so soft.

Silence on both sides. It’s like being in the back of the car again. Swing past St James. Can you still get the Metro from here? 

-Do what you want, Richard. I can’t be bothered with that now.

Tha bus, a mobile-hospital-taxi-van-type-thing (with one wheel at every corner) glides uphill. There was a bus station near here once. Took my bemused granda to the Heap O’ Trouble / Load Of Mischief in Clayton-le-Moors, East Lancs. The destination depends on how you say it, I suppose.

All gone.

I look left. He’s off. Back to wherever. Mind cleared.

ANNOUNCEMENT 23-24-25-26

The curator of the Museum of Photocopies (that’s me, Richard) announces an ongoing, everchanging and intermittent project, PINS. Involving new maps of and from the Lands Beyond and an ever-changing set of rules. The rules refer to the whims and interpretations of the curator as I part-guide you through various forms of paper, whether imagined, real, and reproduced. 

There will be no answers at the end of the spreadsheet. No revelations, no confessions, no self-aesthetics. We are all Bartlebooth: afloat on a sea of our own imaginings.

The game is open to all, but please don’t expect a User’s Manual.