Cryway to heaven.
‘This doesn’t make any sense.’
A small pile of horror.
The business zoom meeting has over-run again – amidst talk of blue-sky optimism.
Try to make the most of your liminal friends.
X zooms in on the cloud of greyness.
X zooms in on digital radio waves emanating from a DFDS haulage truck east of Belton.
“All based on this questionable form? I’ll tell ye what, there are huge sums of money at stake. Terms and conditions apply. More and more globally forgotten. Offer ends 25th of October. Excluding 20 percent VAT. Available on selected games. Devastating outbreak.”
Zoom out.
I search for the water tower but can only see Outmill and Border TV.
R. U. O. K?
No.
I take a left off at Great Coates Interchange, the last exit prior to downtown Grimsby, glancing at my rear view as I ease along the slip lane.
I drift by a couple of roundabouts, pulling over at the non-road adjacent to the Beechwood Farm pub.
A white Covid Warden van driven by a harassed looking fluorescent jacketed man has pulled up behind me. [I noted the vehicle coming into view on numerous occasions throughout my journey from Barnetby Top].
It reverses and moves away after a minute or so.
I pause for a moment, gazing through the series of repeating mirrored gantries lining their way along the perimeter of Vaconsoft Parkway.
X adjusts its range and zero’s in on a series of flickering texts hovering across the original externalised grassed map of the Beechwood Farm pub.
A muffled conversation.
‘Yep, yeah…really? No. Crucial factor? You too. You too. I know. I know. I wish I could…bye.’
‘Separation.’
‘Individuation.’
The text floats and fades gently into the digital soil pixels of the business park wasteland.
The wind is getting up.
X lingers next to a snapped hawthorn bush, resting it’s gaze upon hoax static teetering on the entry to the lost junction.
It scans the traffic below.
‘On a serious point, I don’t know what to believe anymore.’
‘Next page, there’s a picture of his smug face shaking hands with a millionaire opening a block of luxury apartments. This Island is full of RICH paying LITTLE Taxes while the poorer are paying big Taxes, it’s a case of you scratch my back. I will scratch yours.’
Scan out.
I feel as though something is broken, at once unified and divided as my theoretical self rolls around on the aluminium tarmac.
X loiters next to the alt-modern thank you sign in the newly laid car park
Piped in loungy Starbucks music steals Yo La Tengo riffs evoking mythical summer days that never happened.
A phone scroll reveals ‘test and trace exposed.’
Are you staying in? Are you OK to do track and trace?
I spill my drink on the large round table – all of it. Lake Latte. Tall.
I gaze out from an elevated position in search of the virtual bridge.
The ghosts of Little Chef past drifted around the new Starbucks cafe at Barnetby Interchange.
A perpetual drone from the A180 riviera echoed along the mundane stretch of unremarkable tarmac.
It tuned into a couple passing under the bridge of grey bathed in Audi pride.
Blue masks. Alcoholic cologne. Jaded drumbeats.
‘Neither of us are great conversationalists.’ Another she said to another he.
Distortion.
It tuned out, turning it’s attention to the residual sound emanating from a lost wheel trim gleaming in the late summer sun.
My first post-lockdown visit coincided with the excellent article by Gareth E Rees.
The Business Park in the Marsh: Post-Brexit Wanders in Grimsby’s Europarc – Unofficial Britain http://www.unofficialbritain.com/the-business-park-in-the-marsh-post-brexit-wanders-in-grimsbys-europarc/
