annanotbob2's Diaryland Diary


Lost and Found

We did lost and found in writing group and these two bits came along.

  1. Lost Boy

Karen had always been a difficult friend. I could tell none of my other friends liked her at all, though unlike her, none of them would be so rude as to say so. But we connected at once, when I opened the door to my mate Geoff and he said, “Hi Anna, this is my girlfriend Karen,” and there we were, mates at first sight.

Roll forward five years, they’ve moved to Kent and here we are in Margate. Karen and Geoff and their eight month old baby Susie, around whom the whole world must turn, me and my kids.

But suddenly, where’s Renny? My six year old. He was here and now he isn’t.  Panic. Do NOT think of Ian McEwan’s The Child in Time – where he’s never seen again. Do NOT think of that.

I’ve never been to Margate before – we’re near the beach – we were on the beach – is he still there? We split up, Geoff one way, Karen another, Sammie to the left, me and Sara to the right. How far do you walk before turning back, hoping the others have found him?

I bump into Karen who says, “Geoff and I are going home now. Susie will need a feed soon.”

What? WHAT? She’s not even crying! She’s still asleep! What about Ren?

“Oh, he’ll turn up. See you later.”

And off they went, leaving me and my two girls all trying not to cry, my heart in my mouth and then there he is, walking towards us, holding a woman’s hand, eating an ice cream, then running to us and we all do cry a big cry.

But Karen? Took me a while to get over that.

2. The Bike


This photo came up on Facebook memories today, so when we did ‘Lost and Found’ in writing group, I knew what to write. Some names have been changed.

Anyway, I don’t know where the bike came from, but it must have been cheap because it weighed a fucking ton, even before I put a small child in the seat on the back. I’d ridden behind my granny on her bike when I was young, her big, soft, floral covered behind occupying all the view. I liked being in the front seat now.

I mostly rode my bike round to Dot’s – that’s where I am in the photo, young and slim, outside her house, Sammie in a big hat, looking tired in her seat on the back.

But one day it was gone – an empty back yard, no bike. I called the police and in no time I had two young constables sat in my room, staring rudely round at all the clutter – the overflowing bookcases, the massive pinboard filled with photos and posters, piles of stuff everywhere, being carefully scrutinized. But they were nice enough, drank their tea, asked all the right questions, wrote down the answers.

When they left, Sammie and I walked round to Dot’s and there was the fucking bike, propped up against the wall of The Crab where I’d left it two nights ago. Two days it had been there and no fucker had nicked it – theft-proof it was, awful.

I rode on round to Dot’s, passing Rodney, a mutual friend, bit of a cocaine importer, and the penny dropped. They didn’t care about my bike, of course they didn’t – two coppers to investigate the theft of a knackered old push-bike? They were snooping, hoping to get something on Rodney. Fuckers. Nothing to see here, matey, on you go.

10:53 p.m. - 22.11.22


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