Goddards Pie Shop


So I’m sat in Goddards Pie Shop and I couldn’t be happier.

Drizzle, mizzling outside. Scalding coffee and piles of mash, thick gravy, meat filled pie. £4.50, you can’t go wrong.

I’ve got an MSc I need to get back to; it all seems another world away and another life away; the way long summer evenings seem impossible when you’re in midwinter.

I run out of mood stabilisers tomorrow, my normal GP unavailable until the 16th. I’m seeing any old doctor on an emergency appointment simply to get a script. And I need to talk to someone, talk to someone about the past few weeks; the way I’ve swung from chaos to a kind of fluid stability. Need to talk about what I did. What was done. But I can’t talk to someone new, can’t go over all this again, and that. It’ll have to wait.

I’m sat in Goddards Pie Shop. The place closed down a few years back, I was heartbroken. An institution for over a century. Came here with Amy once, kinda stoned, that nice kinda stoned, cosy and fuzzy. Best pie and mash in the world. Here I am again and I couldn’t be happier.

All this shit, all the shit that happened, explosions in my head; deafening, ringing, thrown to the ground and stunned, life thrown in the air, scattered. I’ve got to sort out uni, I’ve got to sort out drugs. I’ve got to sort out some kind of income and decide if I stay in London with it’s rush and sweet bruising tumble, or return North. To family, to quiet, to space.

But right now I’m in Goddards. Plate clean, mug empty. About to go into the mizzling drizzle. Waterproof jacket and hood.

And I couldn’t be happier.


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