7 February 2007
In this crisp season of late winter, when the season dictates that a clear blue sky means sharp, freezing coldness and a grey dull sky brings just that tiny little extra spark of warmth in the air, there are so many small things worth mentioning, each a little peak of pleasure or pique of irritation.
I have lost my treasured, luxuriant green suede gloves. But that was inevitable in my twisted chaotic life. I left my winter coat behind in Cape Town, as I travelled on to Jo’burg in 90 degress of heat. But that meant I got to buy a new one; this time a proper coat. Now I really look like a Londoner. And by golly, did I get a bargain. I paid 60 quid for a mixed wool/cashmere long dark coat worth 100, and it makes me look like absolutely everyone else in the streets. Warm, snug and – by jove – a local.
The weather has forced me to contemplate the oddest thing ever – dinghy sailing in a wetsuit. To an Antipodean, that just seems bizarre. But really, when your boat ices over and the sails are stiff with frost, there is no other alternative. Which means I’ve had to buy one. And yesterday, I scored the deal of a century, when I picked up not one, but two wetsuits, for a total of 40 quid. I should have paid a 100, but he was a Kiwi surfer planning to move on to Morocco in a hurry. So he just gave them away – one, a thick 5mm winter one and the other a 2mm summer one. A summer wetsuit. Grief, what a laugh! And what’s even more amazing is – they fit me. Perfectly. Like a glove. We’ll have no odd comments about me and my gender, thank you very much, ladies and gentlemen. Let’s move right along, shall we?
Right along to restoring my faith in humankind. Yesterday I absentmindedly left a bag full of shopping in a takeaway shop. Not a lot of things; not very expensive; but still enough to make me furious at myself. Imagine my intense pleasure when I popped in this morning on the off-chance, to find that some kind soul had handed in the bag and the counter staff had kept it for me. Intact, all goods returned, with a smile and a “hope you have a good day”. Sometimes London can still put an enormous smile on my face, and pure, unadulterated happiness in my spirit. There’s hope for the human race yet.
Today, on the way to work, the tube train stopped for no reason on the tracks, just before entering the black tunnel below ground. There we stood for about 5 minutes, in silence, suspended on the rails above East Finchley Common, waiting. And I could look out of the window at the glorious white frost on the trees and the lawns, and see the lone person below striding along through the woods for a walk, his dogs bounding joyfully beside him. The bright blue sky above reflected a few pink clouds of sunrise, and I could ponder the incredible seasonal difference from the summer foliage when the trees are so green and thick with leaves you can hardly see anything between them. And contemplate the stark cold beauty of the scene, in utter silence, before the train quietly jolted into motion again and rushed on, into the dark tunnel and the day beyond.
At lunchtime, as we Londoners braved our way out into the park for lunch on a park bench, warmed out of numbness by the delicious sunshine on the green beds of daffodil stalks just popping up. And – most amazing of all – someone on the bench next to me spoke to me! I swear, I nearly fell off my bench in surprise (which would’ve just about shocked the pigeons to death, by gum). She turned out to be German (of course. A Brit would simply never have broken the silence or intruded into someone else’s solitary space, my dear) . We proceeded to have a fabulous conversation about absolutely nothing at all, and everything. She was a 50-something year old lady who had taken early retirement from teaching, and decided to do the free-spirited, bohemian thing of simply taking off into the blue yonder and going to try living in a different city for a while. Then she strode back up the hill to the college where she’s learning to speak English, and I loped back up to the Grindstone once more, inwardly warmed by the odd and arbitrary sense of momentary connection with another wandering soul in the city.
All of today, we are speculating about the prospect of a massive snowstorm tomorrow; we talk with glee of the city grinding to a halt, of all trains being snowed in, of traffic jams, and tube snarls and nightmare commuting and – even – of not being able to make it to work at all or – gosh darn - being stranded overnight in the office. There’s something about snow that makes this city come alive, and even the most dour businessman becomes a child just thinking about the coming chaos.
Roll on, chaos, I say!
I have lost my treasured, luxuriant green suede gloves. But that was inevitable in my twisted chaotic life. I left my winter coat behind in Cape Town, as I travelled on to Jo’burg in 90 degress of heat. But that meant I got to buy a new one; this time a proper coat. Now I really look like a Londoner. And by golly, did I get a bargain. I paid 60 quid for a mixed wool/cashmere long dark coat worth 100, and it makes me look like absolutely everyone else in the streets. Warm, snug and – by jove – a local.
The weather has forced me to contemplate the oddest thing ever – dinghy sailing in a wetsuit. To an Antipodean, that just seems bizarre. But really, when your boat ices over and the sails are stiff with frost, there is no other alternative. Which means I’ve had to buy one. And yesterday, I scored the deal of a century, when I picked up not one, but two wetsuits, for a total of 40 quid. I should have paid a 100, but he was a Kiwi surfer planning to move on to Morocco in a hurry. So he just gave them away – one, a thick 5mm winter one and the other a 2mm summer one. A summer wetsuit. Grief, what a laugh! And what’s even more amazing is – they fit me. Perfectly. Like a glove. We’ll have no odd comments about me and my gender, thank you very much, ladies and gentlemen. Let’s move right along, shall we?
Right along to restoring my faith in humankind. Yesterday I absentmindedly left a bag full of shopping in a takeaway shop. Not a lot of things; not very expensive; but still enough to make me furious at myself. Imagine my intense pleasure when I popped in this morning on the off-chance, to find that some kind soul had handed in the bag and the counter staff had kept it for me. Intact, all goods returned, with a smile and a “hope you have a good day”. Sometimes London can still put an enormous smile on my face, and pure, unadulterated happiness in my spirit. There’s hope for the human race yet.
Today, on the way to work, the tube train stopped for no reason on the tracks, just before entering the black tunnel below ground. There we stood for about 5 minutes, in silence, suspended on the rails above East Finchley Common, waiting. And I could look out of the window at the glorious white frost on the trees and the lawns, and see the lone person below striding along through the woods for a walk, his dogs bounding joyfully beside him. The bright blue sky above reflected a few pink clouds of sunrise, and I could ponder the incredible seasonal difference from the summer foliage when the trees are so green and thick with leaves you can hardly see anything between them. And contemplate the stark cold beauty of the scene, in utter silence, before the train quietly jolted into motion again and rushed on, into the dark tunnel and the day beyond.
At lunchtime, as we Londoners braved our way out into the park for lunch on a park bench, warmed out of numbness by the delicious sunshine on the green beds of daffodil stalks just popping up. And – most amazing of all – someone on the bench next to me spoke to me! I swear, I nearly fell off my bench in surprise (which would’ve just about shocked the pigeons to death, by gum). She turned out to be German (of course. A Brit would simply never have broken the silence or intruded into someone else’s solitary space, my dear) . We proceeded to have a fabulous conversation about absolutely nothing at all, and everything. She was a 50-something year old lady who had taken early retirement from teaching, and decided to do the free-spirited, bohemian thing of simply taking off into the blue yonder and going to try living in a different city for a while. Then she strode back up the hill to the college where she’s learning to speak English, and I loped back up to the Grindstone once more, inwardly warmed by the odd and arbitrary sense of momentary connection with another wandering soul in the city.
All of today, we are speculating about the prospect of a massive snowstorm tomorrow; we talk with glee of the city grinding to a halt, of all trains being snowed in, of traffic jams, and tube snarls and nightmare commuting and – even – of not being able to make it to work at all or – gosh darn - being stranded overnight in the office. There’s something about snow that makes this city come alive, and even the most dour businessman becomes a child just thinking about the coming chaos.
Roll on, chaos, I say!
1 comment:
Tremendous as always - thank you; I really do think you should consider writing seriously..... but then you know that ;-)
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