Evan Rowan

Another parent offloading their worries while I try to listen properly— all the while aware Friday traffic will soon begin building. Now we are beyond Easter they head north again— towards Blackpool, towards The Lakes. A week of children telling against something they do not understand— and staff not always understanding either. Children carrying trauma, neglect, things unnamed— parents hoping for a diagnosis to make sense of it all. Burnley. Blackburn. Morecambe. Schools trying hard with too little. Children carrying far more than children should. Traffic slows now once the caravans and mountain bikes straped to the backs of cars begin heading towards The Lakes. Still the same road north— though not every Friday now. I did not beat the traffic after all, but my favourite podcast has dropped, so all is well enough. Keep thinking of stopping at Tebay for the food— but the crowds put me off every time. Better than the usual motorway places. The car full now of laptops, used shirts, chargers, files, and the rest of working away. Too much packed again for the budget hotel. Dog hair still somehow everywhere. Ready now to swap black work shoes for brown muddy walking boots. Fields widening the further north I go. Stone walls returning. Sky opening out again. When I finally turn off the motorway I unclench a little. Thinking about the greenhouse, the dogs, what still needs doing in the Upper Garden. How the sprouts have managed while I was away. Whether Tracy remembered to tend to them. The fermented vegetables should be ready now. Whether the rabbits have beaten us again. Light still in the kitchen when I finally pull in. Home not dramatic anymore. Just familiar. Bruce barking first, then ecstatic in greeting. And for at least a week now, nowhere else I need to be.

Dad wanted me to like football. My younger brother was good at it. He could speak the language. Offside. 4-4-2. I tried, but no one was fooled. I had two left feet. Blackburn season ticket. Not realising what commitment meant in January. Cold matches. School shoes from Tommy Balls, hanging by string. Toes frozen by half-time. Dad never joined in the chants. At home he watched carefully what I saw on television. Other kids had seen First Blood. I said I wasn't allowed. Everyone laughed. With Mum it was Tenko, The Thorn Birds, even the soaps. One night I stayed home. The Iranian Embassy siege unfolding live on television. Men at windows. Black masks. Everyone watching the same thing at the same time. Dad went without me. I never really went back after that. Years later came Lineker, Gazza, Italia 90. For the first time I understood the excitement of it. By then Dad and I had missed it.