This Little Perfect Day

You know those days when everything is beautiful? They mostly seem to be in May, when it’s early enough in the summer for real proper hot sunshine to be something you appreciate. I think past a certain time you get a bit complacent – even in England. Anyway, this is one of those days, and I’m on the shady platform of our little Victorian station, where for most of the year you can literally freeze your arse off waiting for the train – it's usually so bleak here. You almost don’t dare sit down in case you stick to the metal bench – it’s that cold.

Today I am in a good mood. I finally have shorts that don’t fall down. My hands and feet aren’t numb. Everything is perfect. Other people seem to feel the same way – the platform is full of girls mostly – on their way to wander round the shops I expect – lots of hair flicking and laughing and oh my gods and almost every single one of them have on something with Jack Wills printed across it.

Normally, by the time I get off the train, the sun has gone in. This town is the coldest place known to man – easily ten degrees colder than anywhere else I’ve ever been. Even here today though, it’s hot – not just warm, hot! If you’ve ever been to Cambridge you’ll understand how surprising that is. I’m meeting my son for lunch and the tables outside the cafes are crammed with people – they normally are, I suppose - this place is so crowded, people will sit anywhere, but usually they have grim expressions, and eat with gloves on, pulling their coats tight around themselves to ward off the wind. Today we are all smiles, stretching out, bare arms, faces to the sun, just because we can.

“….So…. if I can avoid the questions that require you to have attended lectures – do the ones where they want original thinking .. I should do okay. I should pass at least. This has been the best year of my life so far….”

My son beams at me from across the table and picks out another olive from the little white dish in front of us – at least it’s supposed to be in front of us, but it seems to have gravitated its way across the table and it’s now in front of him, and almost empty.

I open my mouth – I’m thinking of saying something – asking exactly how many lectures he’s been to, if any, this year, then I decide what the fuck - there’s no point. It’s his life and I’m pleased he’s enjoying it. Anyway, I never went to lectures either, so it would be a bit hypocritical of me to complain. Also too late. The exams start in five days. The town is full of white-faced young people, huge dark shadows under their eyes. It's suicide watch time here, but I don’t think anyone’s going to have to keep an eye on my son.

He smiles again. ”It’s really nice to see you” – surprisingly he sounds as if he actually means it. This is the first time he’s had enough distance for that kind of thing – or at least it’s the first time he’s ever said it, and I smile back, because he’s growing into a lovely person. More or less. I still want to strangle him every now and again – especially when he’s at home for the holidays, but mostly, I’m pleased, and relieved. Life hasn’t exactly been a long unending path of stability for us these past ten years, what with one thing and another, and as he’s the youngest by five years, I always worried about the effect it might have.

After lunch, walking past the beautiful old gates to the colleges you can catch glimpses of what’s inside – jewel bright squares of green, framed by pale honey coloured stone buildings. They have unbelievably strict rules about who can and can’t sit or walk on the grass – it’s quite ridiculous. I ask my son if they bother to break them and he says if you even put one toe over the edge, a porter will come bounding across within seconds. It’s only ok to do it at night when you’re drunk, then they don’t seem to mind. Where it’s allowed, you can see some people stretched out on the grass – alone mostly, and so still they look like corpses.

We sail in through the gates of his college – past a big crowd of Japanese tourists, all clutching furled umbrellas with slogans on, and cameras, looking disappointed because they aren’t allowed in during exam time, and a smaller group of Americans who are hassling the porter to let them in on the grounds that firstly there aren’t so many of them and secondly they’re not Japanese. The porter, his Harry Potter robes flapping in the breeze, assures them politely that even though they are American they still can’t come in. The Japanese take photos of the Americans and the porter, and spill out onto the road as they do, causing people on bicycles to shout at them and ring their bells furiously. It’s amusing to watch but I don’t think I’d like to live here – it would drive me mad

We have been shopping – he’s dangling the results on one arm – a linen shirt and a piece of lemon cheesecake from a fancy shop where they put everything you buy in a little box and tie a ribbon around it. It’s to cheer him along – he will be up for the next seven days straight – more or less. It’s the price you pay for doing no work all year.

He’s grateful but slightly alarmed; “are you sure we can afford this?” he asks. “Yes of course” I reassure him. I have no idea whether we can or not, and actually I don’t care, because today it doesn’t matter.

Anyway, I don’t want him to worry about that kind of thing – there's no point, so I change the subject, and ask if he has any idea what he plans to do in the summer, which is when he tells me about his girlfriend – his first serious one, and how she’s doing English. Then it suddenly makes sense – what he said earlier - about how “some English students” have been giving him poetry to read, and how some of it’s actually not all that bad, and he quite likes the idea of writing now – he’d always thought it was a bit of a waste of time before. In exchange he says he’s been showing “the English students” how you can reason everything out of existence if you want to. I feel a bit sorry for the girl. Then I say he’s welcome to bring her home for the summer if he likes. He looks a bit shifty and says they will probably be moving around the country, staying in empty houses – am I planning to be away at all? I say I might be, but he’s also welcome to bring her home when I am there too.

We’re at the gate to the inner court – where I’m going to leave him. A boy, all hunched up, eyebrows knitted together, wearing something very crumpled – I think it might be a pyjama top, although it’s about four o’clock in the afternoon, holds the gate open. I thank him, and he visibly flinches and looks down furiously, as if I’ve said something really embarrassing – he absolutely won’t look me in the eye. I watch him as he walks – scuttles almost, over to the main gate.

“Is that boy ok? Do you know him?” I say. I wonder if he might be ill or something – perhaps we should tell someone.

My son’s totally unconcerned; “Charlie? Oh yes – he’s fine. He’s just doing law, that’s all. It’s the exams …”

We kiss and I leave him there and wander back out into the real world. I know I’m sticking my head in the sand about – things. Quite a few things. But I don’t think anything would change if I didn’t, except life would be more depressing. It’s all pretty dire. But it’s so bad it would be pointless to worry. I’m going to appreciate the good things – like this little perfect day, and the idea that I’m doing what I love to do, and all the people I love – and I don’t care what anyone else thinks. It’s the only sensible thing to do.