Squash and mushrooms

So I’ve just played my first game of squash in like 18 months, and despite worrying I wouldn’t remember how to hit the ball, I’ve given a jolly good account of myself and triumphed 3-0, 3-1 against a decent player. It’s brutal, sweaty fun – the greatest participant sport I know.

I’m aching afterwards though. And tired after only 45 minutes. The quality of play wasn’t far off – but zero chance of the sort of two and a half hour monster marathon I’d’ve had with good old Harry or Simon back in the heyday of 2012.

What I need’s a sauna. And luckily for me the gate’s open and in I go. Them same old changing rooms and lockers. Them same showers where mucho post-squash conversations and giggles took place. And them good old scorching wooden benches, scene of many a happy and sweating hour.

Remember that time with Christian and chums, when we took Scattergories in there and challenged ourselves to play a whole entire game in one hot sitting?

Ah: the memories – and now I’m suddenly thinking of a guy I met three years ago, a fellow graduate from the same course as me, and the man who introduced me to Limmy’s Show, for which I’ll be forever grateful.

I wonder where he is now? And I’ll tell you: he’s here. He opens the door about five minutes later and climbs on in.

The power of the mind!

Well, yes, all the catching up and recounting the above and sharing latest comedy finds – Together is very good, and Car Share, and The Detectorists – and then he says, “What you doing tonight? I’m meeting some friends at theirs. I’m sure you’d be welcome to join. Come along.”

An interesting occurrence – for another thing I’ve recently been thinking: how come my life on the roads of America is so characterised by strange coincidences and meaningful encounters, and my life in England is mostly working two tiring jobs in which people shout “wanker” at me?

But here: an opportunity, and despite some brain part thinking better the idea of home and habit and computer and bed, I go.

It’s a house in Harehills. A young housesharing house. Ragged cheap furniture and books everywhere. A full-size wooden horse from a fairground carousel draped with coats taking up too much room. Paintings and tea cups. The obligatory Buddha heads. A five-string guitar.

Life!

There’s two women and another guy; that makes five of us. The women are Cara and Bree; the guy’s name I never quite catch. He doesn’t really talk, to be honest; he just sits there grinning and wrapping his hands around a large green mug with a picture of a turtle on it. The turtle is grinning too. The same grin as the guy.

The only thing he says to me all night is: “You want some mushrooms?”

I say, “yes” – I mean, why the hell not? – and off he goes to get them.

When he returns I know I’m in the right place.

He holds out his hand. Opens up his palm. And right there are these six fat long mushrooms straight out of some dream I not long since had.

It’s one of those moments where the mind kind of stops. How is this possible? How is it that – what? – about a month ago I dreamed a dream of someone opening up their palm to reveal a handful of the type of mushroom I knew I’d never seen before but which I also instantly knew was of the psychedelic variety. I’m in a sort of daze. The myriad twisted roads that have led to this moment. Even the hastily-arranged game of squash, and the oddly open and beckoning sauna gate when really I was heading for the bus and home.

Strange mushrooms in a dream, and now they’re here in front of me.

I take them from him, cradle them a while. One of the girls asks if I’ve ever eaten mushrooms. I tell her I haven’t, but wax about the iboga, the LSD and mescaline, and all the vision quest and meditation stuff, to sort of prove my credentials.

“How much is there there?” she asks the guy.

“About five and a half grams,” he says.

“Should be about right.”

Everything’s happening so weirdly automatically. My friend looks on and then says he has to go. He gives me a big awesome hug – a hug in England! – and then leaves me with a smile.

We’re all sat down in the sagging comfy sofas. Bree asks if she can sidle up to me – seriously, “can I sidle up to you?” is what she says – and I say yes.

She curls along my side. Wriggles herself comfortable. Closes her eyes and says, “meow.”

“Bree’s a cat,” Cara says, “do you want to eat those now?”

I have a nibble. They’re actually quite delicious.

“These would be good in an omelette,” I say.

“Did you just come from the sauna?” Cara asks.

“I did.”

“Perfect,” she says.

And then we’re sitting. Talking about little things. The guy gently picking a mellow improvised tune on the five-string guitar.

Bree seems to have fallen asleep on my shoulder.

It’s a pretty nice situation to be in.

“How long’s it been?” I suddenly ask.

Cara says about forty-five minutes.

“Are you feeling something?” she says.

“A little.”

“Would you like to lie down?”

“Yes. And I’d like to be somewhere really quiet,” I say, “so I can hear everything.”

“Come on then,” she says, standing up and holding out her hand.

I reach towards her, slowly, slowly. It takes an age for my hand to find hers. A ridiculous length of time.

This makes me giggle, and Bree stirs and chirrups a little.

“Oh boy,” I say, laughing. And Cara’s eyes twinkle and she smiles at me. Reaches down with both her hands to take mine and lift me up. Walks me up the stairs and into a dark room. Leaves me standing by the door while she disappears somewhere, returning with a candle.

My eyes adjust and I notice a large oblong shape.

“A flotation tank!”

“You ever been in one?”

“Three times,” I say, “very groovy.”

“Well I guess you know what to do,” she says, turning towards the door. “There’s a switch on the left that rings a bell downstairs if you need anything, and a light switch on the right if you need to see. Otherwise: enjoy. Have a beautiful time. And we’ll see you in the morning.”

I want to say thank you, but all I can do is smile. I hold out my arms for a good night hug. She hugs me beautiful and big, and then kisses me once on the lips, sort of how my grandma would, loving and friendly.

Of course, I’m thinking, as she quietly clicks the door behind her and I begin to remove my clothes, friends can do that and it’s perfectly fine: why didn’t I ever realise it before?

One foot steps into salty water, and then the other. I turn my head to blow out the candle. Laugh at my ineffectual puffs. And then the candle goes out anyway.