I finally – finally – got both my jerseys back:
This jersey was discarded 10 days past, into the back of Ross’ car, once I'd had enough tequila to be impervious to cold. I failed to even consider its existence when we dropped the car off at somewhere or other – time, space and consideration were being… flexible – and hopped into a different car. Its value in my life didn’t surface into consciousness the next morning at breakfast. Nor later, when I took my leave of Ross and the general neighbourhood in which his car was parked. I think someone slipped some denial into my hangover.
This jersey was retrieved from Mike & Tia’s bedroom cupboard this morning while they lingered in bed, happy in their acknowledgement that, beneath their covers, they were nekkid as dolphins in the seaweed.
This jersey was discarded as too sodden to be of further use, on Friday afternoon, on Bronwen & Darren’s sunroom couch. In the calamity of gathering 6 people together to leave for a wedding, it failed to be packed away into my bag and carried with me. My jersey and I also failed to reunite at 2am the next morning when I returned to the house to deliver a sack of Rob: I realised after Rob had been tucked in, and the back door closed, and the garage door closed, and the lights turned off, that I wouldn’t be calling Bron to ask if she could quickly open up again so I could get my jersey… and so it proved a sad, wet and chilly trip home on the scooter for me. Oh how I missed my jersey as the rain sliced through my thin black dress-shirt like the fingernails of Odin’s mistress spurned.
This jersey was retrieved this evening from the very same couch. It hadn’t been moved or rearranged at all. I feel sure that many thoroughfarers had glanced at it – brown, limp and undistinguished – and given it a berth. Not a wide one – it is just a jersey after all – but a berth nonetheless.
And so this Sunday evening, when I finally rode home, I was wearing my scaffy, striped Liberty’s jersey, my black ribbed jersey which had shared cupboard space with Tia’s dresses, and my brown zip-up polarneck which had lain unwanted on the sunroom couch. I was toasty, like a Sunday morning crumpet. I was warm, like a fuzzy-wuzzy in a tumble-dryer. I was cozy, like a guy who’s run out of hugs and is ready for bed.