Ever since I lost my love last year, eating has become a serious issue. I have to really kick myself in order to be motivated to prepare a meal. I used to weigh 15 stone (95.25 Kg), now I am about 12½ stones (79.3Kg). I have tried to explain to people that the weight loss is me working to a target and although some of this weight loss is good, on reflection, it is really easy to see how one can just, and without conscious thought taking place, not bother eating for days at a time. Maybe that is worthy of another thought at another time.
Knowing that other people are coming to eat is a good way of motivating me to cook and eat. So, I have tried to regularly get people round, creating the absolute necessity to eat and whilst I am at it, further attempt to combat introspective feelings of isolation and loneliness.
Anyhow, a few weeks ago I had a few friends round for a ‘Stew fest’. Stew is a great meal for the winter and I had been given my grandmothers recipe from my sister. I had ‘practiced’ once before and as it turned out, although it caught on the bottom of the pan, it was not bad grub.
It got quite late and my friends H&B had to leave. J&L were staying over (two brothers and both old friends of mine), and I brought out the cheese.
Seconds later there was a ‘rat, tat, tat’ on the window. It sounded like a ‘friendly knock and so I assumed that H&B had forgotten something.
As I flung open the door, there standing in the snow was a man. Tall and thin, his voice visible in the freezing night air, he asked if I knew where there was a B&B locally. I directed him to the Railway Hotel which invariably has rooms available and also gave him directions to a small B&B around the corner. He then asked if I might spare him a cup of tea. It felt unchristian to turn him away on a cold night and so I invited him in to sit at our table, whilst I made him a cup of tea.
I will refrain from giving his actual name and instead refer to him as ‘RazorShell’.
Standing at about 6’ with straight blond hair hanging to his jaw-line Razor said that he had worked in advertising, he spoke about writing and bands he is in the process of forming. He spoke about companies he is part of.
His speech and mannerisms put him somewhere between Bill Nighy and Ronny Woods. Wearing dozens of bangles on his wrists and with his fingernails painted black, Razor is the real thing. His problem is he’s just not rich or famous.
Now back to the story, after eating cheese, drinking tea and generally being entertaining, it got to the point where I needed to get some sleep and J&L had already crashed. I made it clear to Razor that he had to leave, and he did.
Over the next couple of weeks, sporadically Razor would turn up, banging on the door and asking if he could have a cuppa. In each case, I said yes and invited him in. The third time he turned up, as I opened the door, I noticed he was wearing my green hat with a feather in the band. I asked for it back and explaining its sentimental value (last present from lost love and feather from last farming world outing with her little boy), when he handed it over, I returned it to the hat stand I received a few years ago for Christmas.
The last time I saw Razor was on Saturday 13th in the morning. He came round and I again offered him a tea and chat. He was just as entertaining as ever and as he was about to leave, he asked if I could lend him my guitar. I asked him how long he needed it for and he said he would have it back an hour later; he just wanted to do some busking. I agreed.
Flamboyantly Razor said his goodbye’s and left. About two hours later, I looked toward the door recognizing that my guitar had not been returned. My trust had been broken.
Then I noticed something else.
My green hat with the eagle feather in it's band was missing.
By some slight of hand, Razor had stolen it, standing in full view of me as I showed him out of my front door, this dude had stolen my hat!
He has not returned since and I fear I will never see my hat again.