Running

Recently I lost my mother, my job and nearly my wife in quick succession (she was diagnosed with breast cancer). My son now needles me by asking what I do all day. ‘Son, I have seen things you wouldn’t believe. I have dark thoughts.’ That is what I want to say, but I don’t have the courage. It is hard to explain to an 11-year-old that the black dog can be as demanding as any full-time employer. Besides he wouldn’t get the Blade Runner reference. But his niggling question makes me realise I am a man in need of an alibi, or another alias. My old headmaster once described me as the opposite of a whited sepulchre. I think he intended this as a compliment My grandfather S.P.B. Mais earned his keep as a novelist, broadcaster, gossip columnist and schoolteacher.

God used to exist. He doesn’t any more, but back in the early 1970s he was a major presence in my life. The world at that time was run by President Nixon and his adviser Ted Heath, but their power was limited, and even they had to defer to God’s authority. That’s how it seemed to me. A howling spirit or a weeping martyr might burst forth, dripping blood or swathed in tongues of fire I was encouraged by the adults to converse with God and to ask for his guidance and I spoke to him often, in class when we prayed, at night in my bedroom, and at Mass on Sunday. God listened to everyone, regardless of their wealth or status, and even great leaders had no better claim to his attention than I did. This made me feel special and powerful.

Dante’s Beach, Ravenna Was it chance or destiny, I wonder, that caused the eldest of our six children, Caterina, to pull over in the dead of night and park the car where she did? She was on her way back with a young man from a beach party down the coast and had stopped next to a derelict farmhouse so she could look for shooting stars in the endless night and make a wish. That is how she found the latest animals to join our household: a very strange silver-grey cat with long legs and blackish spots and a single kitten who looked exactly the same in miniature. This tiny kitten constantly interrupted the star-gazing activities of Caterina and her suitor by straying out on to the road, followed by its mother, who was so weak that she looked half-dead.

Over at the judging for Waggiest Tail, things were getting acrimonious. ‘That bloody woman,’ my new acquaintance muttered. We were sitting behind the rope barrier in the front row and had formed a bond over a serious injustice in Prettiest Bitch. ‘I’m pretty sure she threw this category three, four years back. I happen to know – for a fact – that she made her husband stay overnight in a Travelodge. Dog’s got awful separation anxiety. Husband comes to the park, sitting round the corner. Once the Waggiest Tail starts up, she texts him, and he appears in the dog’s eyeline. Dog starts wagging fit to bust. First prize. Disgrace.’ ‘Surely not,’ I said. ‘You’d be surprised what people are capable of,’ he said.

There was not a Spaniard in sight, I was pretty sure of that. But I was surrounded by the enemy, nevertheless. Naturally, the enemy included my Italian wife, Carla. We were at the open-air restaurant for the Euro 2024 final in one of the two village campsites not far from the nudist beach. If England beat Spain, I would have a plausible excuse to break out the booze after being on the wagon for far too many months and get patriotically sloshed. I knew that none of those gathered in front of the giant TV screen beneath the stars could be from Spain, because the Spanish do not come to Dante’s Beach near Ravenna. Nudism isn’t really their cup of tea. Instead, we get loads of Germans and Dutch who drive thousands of miles to strut about naked in front of each other.

One of us must once have told a political pollster: ‘I really have no idea at all who I’m going to vote for.’ A moment of mild exasperation put us down as ‘Don’t knows’. Forever afterwards, the prospect of an election, whether for Wandsworth council, the Mayor of London or the Battersea parliamentary constituency, brings them out. The doorbell goes, and there is a bright-faced, footsore, ill-dressed but dedicated party activist, clutching a clipboard. Without exception, each is firmly convinced that he knows what you are going to complain about. ‘Why do runners need compulsory declarations that something is “fun”, and amplification, and techno?’ ‘Do you have any concerns about your neighbourhood?’ a Labour canvasser once asked.