Dog Dare No 1. Authored by Andy Abbott. Originally sent on Aug 14th 2007 to Jon Slight. Returned to Andy Abbott on August 27th, 2007

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"GO TO A PLACE BEGINNING WITH AN ‘S’ AND BE A WORKER WHO, IT BECOMES CLEAR IS NOT ON COMPANY TIME"

ANDY ABBOTT’S (HALF) DAY OFF

In the morning of Friday 31st August I ironed my suit (last outing - Dave Ronalds’ wedding 2005) and put on a stripy white shirt that I bought for my sister’s wedding and a blue tie that I had swapped with an old school friend. I printed out some directions for a walk around Skipton Woods from the internet.

In my laptop bag I crammed a small loaf of bread, some cutlery, some butter, a small bottle of wine and a small glass, two bits of pizza, a few crisps, a pair of clippers, a disposable razor and some Lush shaving balm, some pheasant pate, a little cake, a small plate, some toothpaste and a toothbrush and a miniature cheese and tomato sandwich.

I left the house with my bag and made my way to Saltaire train station to catch the 11:51 to Skipton. The train journey was uneventful but scenic, especially for me, as I have never ventured further up the line than Cononley.

Arriving in Skipton around 12:20 I headed away from the station following signs for the town centre. The weather was changeable, I suppose what you would charitably describe as ‘sunny spells’, and at times spits of rain came down. It was also blustery.

Skipton to my surprise was quaintly picturesque, a market town populated by old biddies and tourists. I didn’t see another person in a suit until I hit the town centre and I promptly followed him along the road. This led me to the main high street where the banks were situated, a HSBC, Lloyds, Natwest etc all in close proximity. I followed another couple of suits as they left one of the banks, hoping they would lead me to a businessman’s lunching spot. I had to ditch them in Boots but it was only a short walk to the top of the high street to find Skipton castle churchyard, where many workers were sat down on benches to eat their sandwiches.

There were seven or eight benches in total situated around the perimeter of the churchyard and a smaller seating arrangement in the centre of the grounds. I chose to sit at a vacant bench on the perimeter of the yard. On my right another man dressed in a white shirt and work trousers was eating a Greggs pasty. On my left a couple of elderly tourists munched sandwiches. Across the grounds another man in a suit scanned over important looking papers whilst a group of younger lads that looked like they worked in a mobile phone shop ate stuff from a bakery.

I began my meal around 12:50, first laying the small plate on my lap and cutlery, then taking the small bottle of wine and small wine glass and resting them on the seat of the bench. I began by cutting a couple of slices off the small white loaf and buttering one of them. To this I added slices of a mini Cathedral City cheese. I ate it from the plate in small bites. Half way through the slice I poured a small glass of wine to help break it up in my mouth and to wash it down. The rest was much improved by the red-wine flavour.

After finishing this I wiped down the knife, pulled out the jar of pheasant pate in my bag and spread it thick on the other small slice of white bread. This I ate using a knife and fork. During this time the man on my right was replaced by a younger couple, the female of whom was dressed in what appeared to be a Boots uniform. Later on she shrieked loudly when a bird shat on her bare leg.

I removed my small cheese and tomato sandwich from its foil packaging and began to eat it, again cutting it and putting it in my mouth using a knife and fork. Another small helping of wine in the little glass helped it down. The other diners in the churchyard were slowly substituted by workers dressed in similar attire, and who were carrying interchangeable finger-food.

After some crisps and a digesting break I began on my first portion of pizza. This felt more deserved of a knife and fork treatment and I celebrated by draining the last of the little bottle of red. Once the pizza was finished I decided to seek out an off-licence. As the churchyard was getting fuller of lunchtime wanderers and tourists I realised this would most likely mean sacrificing my bench.

Fortunately a Threshers was within the field of vision so I headed straight out of the churchyard to browse the wine section. I deliberated between a four-pack of Special Brew and a mid-price bottle of Shiraz, landing on the red wine with the addition of a couple of small cigars. On the way out of the shop and back towards the castle I noticed another row of benches frequented by lunchers. As one was free and the spot had good passing pedestrian and vehicular traffic (in the form of a junction of the A65 a few yards in front) I resigned to finish my extended lunch here.

I sat down and set up my eating apparatus again (plate, cutlery, wine and glass) and pulled out the second portion of pizza. By this point my eating pace had slowed down and I was paying more attention to the wine, which was markedly better tasting than the previous bottle. During my eating and drinking I noticed I was being observed by a group of people spying out of the top window of Wild’s Café over the road.

After a couple more glasses of wine I had finished off the final pizza piece. I licked the plate and cutlery clean and unwrapped the miniature chocolate cake from its tin-foil. I gave the plate a final pull down over my tongue to remove any remnants of tomato sauce or cheese and placed the cake on the small plate and leisurely demolished it (again using a knife and fork). The clock in the church struck two at some point.

After putting away my eating tackle I poured another wine and smoked a small cigar. On the benches to either side of me OAPs began to congregate. Some ate ice creams; a couple had dogs. Towards the end of my cigar and a couple of sips into another glass of wine a middle-aged woman and her mother asked to join me. The daughter asked whether I was enjoying my long lunch and I replied that I was very much enjoying my Friday afternoon.

They sat with me for about twenty minutes whilst I drank some more wine, picking up bits of the conversation they were having about it spitting and the wind keeping it off. Once when I poured myself another small glass of wine I made a sudden movement and spilled a lot over my trouser legs. When they left the younger woman said “Ta ra”.

An older, frailer-looking woman replaced her. I began to feed some pigeons that were milling about by rolling and flicking pellets of the white bread I had for lunch. At times over eight pigeons flocked and pecked around the benches. The woman next to me didn’t seem to care. She took out a photocopied church programme and began to write over the pages regardless of what was printed on them. I managed to read the initial sentences which were ‘Sometimes I just want to..’ and something else to a similar effect. Her handwriting was loopy.

After another glass of wine I put the bottle away (with about a quarter left in it) and began to brush my teeth. It was a little tough at first because the wine and salty food had dried up my mouth but it got easier. I brushed for a long time and spat out into a plant pot next to me. I did this twice. Some people were talking about Alsatian dogs behind me. When I had finished sucking out the foam from my toothbrush I put it away and began to shave my face with the clippers in my bag. I put a piece of A4 paper over my shirt and tie to catch some of the hair and used a blank DVD-R as a mirror.

When I had shortened back the hair enough I rubbed the ‘Ambrosia natural shaving balm’ over my face and began to wet shave with the disposable razor. This was difficult because there was nothing to rinse out the razor with but I struggled through. It maybe took five or seven minutes during which time no-one changed position around me. I shook off the excess scum and hair into the same plant pot next to me that I’d used for brushing.

After I had finished shaving I put away my toiletries in the wash bag, brushed my shirt and suit down and gave up my seat to a passing couple who Godblessed me. I looked over my walk directions and realised I was close by to the start-out point. I walked down past the castle and church and saw an old-fashioned sweetshop. I went in and asked for some pear drops, sour joos and chocolate fudge. The shopkeeper explained to me apologetically that it was only chocolate flavoured fudge, which I interpreted as recognition of my smart business attire.

With my pockets full of sweets and a bag of cutlery, tin foil and wine I headed down the canal following the guide to the walk. A couple of Japanese girls followed behind me. On the walk I saw the castle, a waterfall, a dam with a heron nesting in it and some tunnels with water running through them. I took a wrong turn once but found my way back to the designated route. I passed groups of walkers most of whom were over retirement age and kitted out in walking boots and waterproofs. We cheerily exchanged greetings.

The last part of the walk was through an open field, following a faint walkers trail with views of the moors on three sides and the wood on the other. At the top of the hill I could see all of Skipton. A father and his two children were walking down the hill, also in walking gear. I passed them at the stile at the bottom of the hill where the kids said hello and the dad referred to me as a ‘fella’ in an American or Canadian accent.

Once I was back in Skipton it was four o’clock. I decided to browse some reading material in a peculiarly busy WH Smith to read for the remainder of the working day. I inspected the soft-porn, gun magazines, oversized Diana memorial publications, teen girl magazines and gay and lesbian journals before settling on a Beano Annual. With this I returned to the churchyard I had started my lunch in and read a few pages with a glass of wine. By this time though I was the only person around so I decided to head back to the station.

The train was less busy than I expected for five o’clock on a Friday. I continued to read my Beano annual and sup some wine from the bottle on the return to Saltaire. A couple of young girls glanced over to work out what I was reading but with no reaction. At Keighley the girls got off and in their place sat a gang of Polish-speaking youngsters who talked quickly and loudly, and who I assume had also just finished a hard days’ work.