Walknotes

19 – 24 May 2024

Saturday

“Everyone told her to stash them here, that’s what they said. They said no one comes here, so just come back and get them later: the garden statue and a long, shallow planter. They said you’ll never carry them back together, too heavy.

It was just a yard really, between the backs of buildings which faced each other. Although if you thought about it, it was the opposite. The buildings were all turning away. They were high enough that they blocked out the light so everything was in blue-tinted shadow. 

There was a tall table in the centre and trash piled up around the edges of the yard. It didn’t look safe to her but she stashed both things under the table anyway, statue at one end and the planter taking the rest of the space. It was no kind of hiding place. You could see them as soon as you entered the yard but they said that was the point: no one would, because they never did. 

She followed them out, said her goodbyes and started the journey alone. But half way home she changed her mind. She didn’t want to leave them there after all. It didn’t feel safe, she’d find another way. So she jumped off the bus and walked back. Just a few stops really.

When she walked into the yard the statue was gone—she could see that straight away. There was a bag thrown in one corner and the contents had spilled. She picked up a purse and flicked through it. Anything valuable was gone. Then she saw the arm: pasty and white, mottled blue at the fingers, a woman’s fingernails. She looked over her shoulder feeling responsible somehow, which was absurd. It’s not like she’d killed anyone herself.

She walked to the planter and wondered again why it had a lid. Perhaps it wasn’t a planter after all? She put pressure on the base with her foot and it shifted easily. She could definitely carry it – especially now, without the statue. She picked up the arm, bloodless but just flexible, and pushed it into the too-short planter, twisting it at the wrist to shut the lid. She supposed she’d have to get rid of it. Leaving it here felt like a risk, like she would be more traceable somehow because of it. She heaved the planter up and carried it out of the yard.”

I said “That’s it.”

He said “You know what that’s about, right?”

I said no. 

He said it was probably inspired by that marketing campaign for Resident Evil 5. 

Last week at Interesting (an evening of talks) someone spoke about game PR from the late 90s and early 2000s. As he was explaining this one, all I could think about were people finding the limbs by accident, and it’s been sliding around my subconscious ever since—well, that and I was standing next to a coffin (empty, unused, never will be used) in the office when I spoke to someone at work on Thursday, and I remember fiddling with a detail on the lid and wondering if I should just get inside.

—

On Saturday evening we saw Love Lies Bleeding at the cinema, more by accident than design. Since then every dream is full of unattached limbs and I’m awake far too early.

Monday

I’m biased of course, but our foxglove is the most exquisite foxglove you’ve never seen. It’s so tall. And so straight. A marvel. It’s a sunny hazy morning but I’m short on time, so I litter pick instead of heading to the wood. The council have stopped cutting the grass by the side of the road and now it’s all frothing with cow parsley too. Someone stops to chat and say thank you. Later I try to cross the road on a blind corner and nearly get myself killed. In the evening I check the garden for slugs again in the gloom. When the moon comes out leaves glisten silver and the snail is nowhere to be seen.

Tuesday

Sunrise: 5:00am

The wren is still singing at the station. A tiny dramatic opera to see us on our way. At home the garden was filled with the rattling sound of magpies. It’s overcast and the train is more packed than usual. I walk through two carriages and still there’s not an unfilled seat. From the train window everyone’s allotments are looking tidy and prepared. 

I try to read on the train (Hilary Mantel essays), but I can’t concentrate. When I look up an older man is standing in the aisle, red phone held up to his face—but behind his eyes he’s blue-screened and he’s staring into space. I woke up too early again, but I can’t sleep here. 

Wednesday 

It’s damp outside and about to rain but I go for a walk anyway because it’s so fresh and green. 

I’m singing PJ Harvey because I saw London Tide last night at the National Theatre and one of the songs sounded like Good Fortune. I enjoyed the musical but would not recommend it. I love PJ Harvey who wrote the music, but she’s written music only she can sing. The physical staging and the lighting are great though. And the people I sat next to were a genuine delight.

In the field that once held deer the oxeye daisies are out. The field which previously held cows now has just two rams – one of which doesn’t notice me approaching and visibly jumps when he spots me. I apologise. On the way home I see M walking slowly and we chat as we head in the same direction. He says sorry for ‘being boring’ and I tell him if I didn’t want to talk to him I could’ve pretended I hadn’t seen him. He cheers up and tells me a joke, then he asks for my name again. (I lied, I remembered his from last week afterall.)

Rishi Sunak calls an election. I was so deep in the minutiae of a complex/legal communication at work all I can think is ‘why is he standing in the rain?’ and ‘why does the BBC say ‘July 4th’ on TV and ‘4 July’ on the website? I assume the latter can only be either:

  • accidental lack of consistency 
  • worried about writing ‘election called for 4’
  • different style guides for TV and web

As always, I’m here to ask the big questions The Man just doesn’t want to answer.

Thursday

“God I hate people crying when they should just go to prison.”

“Mummy, what?

The woman in the seat in front has picked up a copy of the Metro.

“She did a big naughty and messed up people’s lives and now she’s crying and she should really just go to prison for negligence. July fourth is the election then.”

“Mummy?”

The woman explains what it means to be a boss, what evidence means, what consequences mean. Her daughter’s eyes widen and she looks appalled.

Other things – turns out they’re all weeknotes related.

Published by

DW