The Day of Medlars and Miles
He woke hollow-headed, the kind of morning where the tongue feels like an old boot and the brain’s full of static. No drama, no theatrics — just that quiet admission: “Right. I’ve overdone it.” So he did what he always does when the walls start pressing in — laced up, stepped out, and pointed himself away from Um. Out past Crabtree Lane. Over the Wharfe. Through Linton. Six miles without thinkin’, really. The body walked; the mind dragged behind like a sulky child. Every now and then anxiety jabbed him in the ribs — that feeling of wanting to be somewhere before he’d arrived. Familiar, irritating, survivable. Messages pinged. Sister wanting favours. Mum’s old refrain — “Emma works hard.” Same tune, same sting. He felt that old injustice rise — all he gives, never enough. So instead of turning toward 42 Braine Road, he turned away. Self-preservation masquerading as route choice. He came for medlars — and he got ‘em. A pocket full of brown, ugly little treasures. Rosehips and blackthorn ...