Walking in the House

Morecamberawork


3rd November 2018
Daisy, Percy and me, went to Morecambe for three days for my 60th birthday. We stayed in a Travellodge having forgotten that we‘d said we‘d never do so again. We remembered that promise when all the things that had made us make it happened again. I woke for the last time, invented some new swear words then set out to walk Perce anywhere. It‘s always nice weather on my birthday. I have never even nearly seen so many mobility scooters. Here‘s a picture with a man with a lot of pale ale. I wish I‘d taken a picture of the smart lady who is here behind him, as after catching him up, she made off with a pack, but I didn‘t think to because Percy wasn‘t pissing. I just read that last bit out to Daisy to see if it was obvious I was joking. She thought it wasn‘t.




A sign at the start of the Stone Jetty explained that filming was underway and anyone who thought they might have been filmed and didnt want to end up on telly should inform someone or other – I forget. I thought I‘d take our six legs down to the far end and have a look at the Irish sea. A thirty-ish chap in a high viz jacket and a practised scowl told me we couldn‘t go any further. I said we could. He said we couldn‘t. I tried some coulding. He responded with canting. There we were, a dance, me trying to go forward and him pushing me back with his belly and holding his arms out sideways to prove he wasn‘t touching me. ‘‘You‘re not allowed to touch me,‘‘ I explained. ‘‘I‘m not,‘‘ he said, bellying me while flapping his arms to show he wasn‘t touching me. Percy‘s lead was now tangled around one of his legs and Percy was looking indignant. I wondered if Percy would nip him. Percy can try to fix confusion with tooth-work.
A woman not much older than a girl and wearing bright clothes half-ran over and asked what was happening. The man suddenly shouted, ‘‘Don‘t shout at me,‘‘ in the hope that I‘d suddenly start shouting and he could biff me. I was busy looking smiley and harmless for the young lady. She was a bit cross with him and said she‘d walk me down the jetty. We chatted pleasantly as she worked out what the chances of me being trouble were and once we were past the filming said goodbye, and I walked to the end. There I took this picture and looked at the grey bustling sea and had the usual deep trite moments of reflection. There was also those flowers to think about.
A man of my own age who didn‘t bother to impress me that he could if necessary be efficiently nasty turned up, easily apologised for his colleague – ‘‘door-work makes some of them like that‘‘ – and said that he‘d be happy to walk with me back along the jetty whenever I felt like it. He had a nice drift-woody face. He asked quite formally if I‘d like him to tell me about this particular bit of sea. He was a yachtsman, always on the sea, and his son held the record for – I think – rowing to the Isle of man from Morecambe. Whatever it was it took fifteen hours, I remember. When the conversation returned to dry land I learnt that he had for twenty years been the publican at the Nags Head on Deansgate – I‘ve been in there a few times. We found some other coincidences and parted almost as friends a little way after the filmers and all their kit. As I passed the first fellow I said, ‘Alright‘, as if it hadn‘t really been anything rankle-worthy after all, had it? He aimed at blithe and said, ‘‘Wonderful‘‘, his mouth not quite the right shape for the word.




         

Last Post


22nd October 2017

Love Your Local
Love Your Local

I thought this might be my last pic of Percy pissing. It was about midnight in Stretford. After pleasing me by pissing outside the Robin Hood Pub he wriggled under a parked car. I don‘t like to pull on his lead as it can‘t be good for his neck, and anyway I thought it was probably a cat and he would do as he normally does: snarl and brandish his teeth, and then when the cat hissed, spat or raised a paw, retire snarling backwards to piss swaggeringly on everything standing. But I couldn‘t hear snarling. I could hear eating. And he wouldn‘t enjoy spending another half week again slowly sicking up an old kebab. I cajoled my body downwards, and chin on the pavement, grabbed two back legs. As his jaws appeared I saw very briefly the corner of a cling-film wrapped sandwich disappear.
I slept badly. He slept well. On today‘s first walk, concentrating, he poohed out eight inches of cling film.


         

Pissapointing


20th October 2017

Percy Missing
Percy Missing

Last night was disappointing. Percy failed to loiter near the sign for Barton Road – probably, and sensibly, because it would have necessitated actually standing on Barton Road. I was prepared to risk him but he wasn‘t. He then failed to wet a poster with just the initials P P on it, really big too. I‘ve started taking photographs of some of his Near Pisses so as I sighed I pressed the button as he pissed on a National Lottery poster next to it. ‘You‘ve done that lottery joke ages ago, Perce,‘ I muttered. He ignored me. He never bothers much with me when we‘re out. He‘s friendly enough in the house, but outside I only get two looks: ‘Hurry up,‘ and ‘Oi! Can‘t you see I‘m busy here.‘
The evening before he didn‘t piss on the Sun (see above) that all the way towards I was silently begging him to. Go on, Percy, plunge the Solar System into perpetual black.
He‘s walked past every Gents we‘ve walked towards.


         

Pissing and Pointing.


16th October 2017

Percy Pissing on Holiday
Percy Pissing on Holiday

This year we took our holiday at Silloth on the coast of Cumbria. It‘s got everything we (Percy and me) need for a photograph: space. Usually the first part of most of these photographs is me elbowing stuff out of the way to make room for Percy‘s performance. In Manchester I end up getting close to keep out attention-seeking stuff. In Silloth, on the beach, on the promenade, in fields, even in front gardens, any objects tend to be nicely far off from each other, as do people. It was easy. Percy pissed: I pointed.

Rose Garden
Rose Garden